Never really got over it
by Bellerophone
Summary: SPOILER: Rowling said George "never really got over" Fred's death. This fic explores exactly what that means, following George as he struggles with life without his twin.  Rated T to be safe for some dark scenes and thoughts of death. COMPLETE!
1. Even simple tasks are hard

June 2, 1998

Nowadays, George Weasley brushed his teeth with his eyes closed.

He was getting quite good at crossing the bathroom in the dark. It was safe to open them while on the toilet, or rummaging through the medicine closet, but any other action was far too dangerous to risk with open eyes.

He could, however, do nothing about what he saw when his eyes were closed.

_The Great Hall of Hogwarts, become a mass grave—his family grouped together in the center, over a body that George knew as well as his own—_

_ Percy's voice, that echoed strangely in his ears because he was not there; because the Hall was crowded; because George was in the bathroom of his flat on Diagon Alley, because Mum was weeping, lying on top of Fred, and Fred was dead, and George was—_

_ "He—I don't think he suffered. I think it was fast. He was—he was laughing when—see, he's still sort of smiling—"_

_ "Not now, Percy." This was Arthur Weasley's voice, as Molly wailed and clutched Fred's torn robes. "Not—not yet—"_

_ "No." _

_ This was Fred's voice, and it frightened George to hear it. His family's eyes all turned to him, George, and for a moment he wondered why, but his chest was burning, and Fred's voice was coming from his own mouth._

_ "Tell me. Tell me everything."_

_ How was he able to speak? His hands were on Fred's head; he could feel the blood, the terrible dent, the wound; his eyes were full of Fred but from somewhere deep within his chest he heard himself say, "Everything from when we separated..until he died."_

George couldn't find the toothpaste. One hand still leaning on the sink, his toothbrush dangling from his mouth, George searched over the sink counter with his free hand, his eyes still closed.

_ And it was Percy's voice, always Percy's, that said, slowly and carefully, as if reciting from a textbook: " 'You're joking, Perce. I don't think I've heard you joke since we—' and that's when...the wall exploded."_

George's heart lurched in his chest. He bent over the sink, as he had bent over Fred's body, and, then as now, still Fred's pale, bloody, dust-streaked face hovered before his eyes, that faint, mocking smile still playing across his frayed lips.

_ "I saw Ron, and Harry and Hermione. And Rookwood—Augustus Rookwood, running away."_

_ "He did it?" said Ginny. "Rookwood?"_

_ "I think so," choked Percy. "I—I don't know. I think so. I ran after him—but I lost him. S-so, I went back for Fred. _

_ "Someone, Ron and Harry, I guess, had moved…ah…" Percy put a hand to his face, but George didn't move. "Th-they moved his body into an alcove—to protect it. So I found him and…I stayed with him until I heard You-Know-Who's voice, y'know, and the fighting stopped. So I picked Fred up and started carrying him downstairs. Passed Charlie on the way—he helped me. Mom and Bill were in the Great Hall when we got there. Then, you know, Ginny and Dad got there, and then you, George…"_

George's hand slipped on the sink basin. He pitched forward, choking on his toothbrush, and without meaning to his eyes flew open.

His head was inches away from the bathroom mirror. George gagged, spat out his toothbrush and toothpaste, and tried to recoil, but it was too late—his eyes had found those of his mirror-image. Slowly, George dragged a hand over his mouth, his eyes never leaving the mirror.

A low groan escaped George's throat, and he leaned forward to rest his head against the face that could almost be his twin's.

"Fred…what am I supposed to do?"

The blue eyes looking back at him blurred as George's own filled with tears, but he could have sworn he saw in them a familiar gleam, one of a sorrow different from his, before the tears spilled over. Some of them trickled down his cheeks to the mirror and slid down its cold unyielding glass, so that it seemed like the tears of two, instead of one, were falling drop after drop into the Weasleys' bathroom sink.

….

…

_My first foray into the wide, WIDE world of Harry Potter fanfiction! I've been a HP nut practically my whole life, but for some reason I never wrote fanfiction for it. That changed after the most recent movie—I was so outraged at how they skipped over Fred's death, and I desperately needed closure for George neither the movie, nor the book, really, provided. Sooo my beloved cousin suggested I write my own fanfiction, and here it is._

_There WILL be more chapters! More angst, more tears, but also hope and resolution, I promise. _


	2. Memories like needles in my heart

Chapter 2: Memories like needles in my heart

June 1998

He knew he had to leave the Burrow.

George didn't tell them the real reason why. "I should get back to the shop," is what he said.

But Molly Weasley knew.

"Promise me you'll visit every weekend," she said tearfully one Monday morning in late June as the three of them stood on the Burrow's front stoop. "Or Sundays to Mondays, whatever you'll be taking off. Ron, you'll come home, won't you?"

"'Course we will, Mum," said Ron, standing on George's left. George had not protested when first Bill, then Mr. Weasley, then Ron himself, and, belatedly, Hermione, asked if Ron could work with him at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Their shyness, their conciliation—their wariness, even, was almost funny. To agree was the best way to get them to leave again.

Molly reached up and straightened George's cloak. "All right—be safe, you two."

George let her squeeze him tightly, run her hand over the hole on the side of his head where his ear had been, and then straighten his cloak one last time before she stepped back.

"I love you, George, Ron."

"Love you too, Mum," said Ron.

George nodded, and then the two brothers walked out to the garden hedge that marked the borders of the protective charms still in place around the Burrow, turned on their heels, and disappeared.

They reappeared in the middle of the road of Diagon Alley, in front of a bright pink building whose once-cheery paint was now chipped and even burnt in places; its windows were boarded up but the front door was hanging off its hinges. A sign on the side of it read:

_We ey Wiz rd hee_

Many of the other stores around them looked little better, and the cobblestone street was almost empty. A witch sweeping off the front stoop of a specialty foods store across the street waved at George.

"Hello, Mr. Weasley!" she called. "Nice to have you back." She looked at Ron. "Where's—um—George?"

"Right here," said George, walking up the front steps of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"Oh—then where's—"

But George had already pushed open the broken front door and disappeared inside.

Ron shot a pained expression at the witch across the street. "…Our brother Fred—died at the Battle of Hogwarts."

The witch clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh no—I'm sorry—"

"S'okay," Ron mumbled, and hurried to catch up with George.

The sight that greeted him was quite different than his first look at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes two years ago. Then, he had seen the twins surrounded by a crowd of eager, smiling customers crowded into a shop bursting with colorful, clever and slightly dangerous-looking toys and tricks.

Now it was just George, standing alone in the center of a dusty, dirty wreckage of smashed, broken and burnt merchandise.

"Woah." gasped Ron.

"Yeah," said George with a relish he did not feel. "We figured Death Eaters'd try to ransack our store, especially since that little Malfoy git used our Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder to get into Hogwarts. So a few days before we cleared out, Fred and I booby-trapped all the defensive stuff, switched labels on the bottles, got rid of the really good stuff." He kicked over a scorched pile of Patented Daydream Potions that disintegrated into grey ash on the floor. "Looks like someone didn't take too kindly to our special Death Eater brand of Dragonsbreath Peppermints."

"What're those?"

"The regular version just makes you breathe fire for a few minutes. The Death Eater version gives you massive internal burns."

Ron winced. "Ouch."

"Yup. Fred's idea."

The two of them spent the rest of the day cleaning up the shop downstairs, a task which involved just as much agility, defensive magic, and liberal application of various antidotes as it did cleaning supplies.

"Watch it, Ron! I'm pretty sure we booby-trapped that bookshelf."

"You know what?" said Ron, whose face already sported several shiny burns, whose shirt was covered in purple goop, and whose hair was sticking up on end, "Why don't you come here and check it out yourself."

"Oh, good idea! The maybe I'll get offed, too, and you won't have to fuss about us anymore."

"George!"

"Keep your pants on, Ron, I'm only joking. Go on, move, let me see it."

The bookshelf in question turned out not to be booby-trapped at all, though a few of the books stuck their pages out like tongues at Ron, and a copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters_ tried to bite his hand.

"Oh, right," said George. "We didn't rig the bookshelf. Figured what the hell, Death Eaters don't read, right?"

Ron, who was still trying to get _The Monster Book_ off his hand, merely grunted.

One stack of Exploding Snap cards later (which had nothing short of detonated when Ron had touched them, setting fire to the bookshelf that they had just straightened), a very frazzled Ron insisted on supper before he would continue. So George, who was cleaning up the remains of some Muggle magic tricks that appeared to have been savagely destroyed, straightened with a sigh. "Upstairs, then."

Ron followed George through the wrecked store to the flat above that the twins had shared. It was small and, compared to the chaos and color of the shop downstairs, surprisingly plain. It, too, had been ransacked, though far more carelessly; the cabinet doors in the kitchen were all open and the couch had been taken apart in the living room, but a good part of the mess was the twins' own: a fake wand or a pile of what looked suspiciously like Doxy droppings, George's jacket on the floor, two of Fred's ties on the lamp.

Ron peeked into the two doors at the other end of the living room-kitchen area, both of which contained identically dusty and unmade beds.

"You guys had separate rooms?"

"Yes," said George curtly from behind him, pushing open the left-hand door. "We didn't share everything, you know. Three is company sometimes."

"Oh." Ron blushed as they entered George's room. It had been halfheartedly ransacked; the only sign of intruders was a few booted footprints on the floor. "…It's the first time you guys'd had separate rooms in your life, huh?"

"Y'know, funnily enough, I had already realized that."

Ron looked mortified. "—S-sorry—"

For a moment, George looked like he was about to hit Ron, but then he merely shrugged. "Look—would you mind sleeping on the couch for a few nights? I'll—I'll move Fred's stuff in a bit, and then you can have his room."

"Okay."

George turned to head across the hall to Fred's room—but he stopped before his own door. The idea of going in there—of seeing Fred's ransacked room, his unmade bed, the half-written letters and designs on his desk—of opening Fred's closet, not to steal a shirt, but to clean it out—

"Feels funny in here, doesn't it?" spoke up Ron from behind him.

George jumped. "What?"

Ron looked at him in surprise. "Feels—almost like when Dementors are around."

"Oh." George shrugged and turned his back on the door. "Guess so. There've been a lot of Dementors around Diagon Alley lately."

"Yeah. Lupin said they were breeding—'cause of Voldemort." Ron glanced at his older brother. "Well, can't hurt if we—" he raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"

George flinched again as a sudden silver light illuminated the dark room, and then a shimmering terrier sprang forth from the tip of Ron's wand and began dashing joyfully around George's bedroom.

"Go on, give me a hand," said Ron, as George watched the terrier race into the hall.

"I—is it going in Fred's—"

"Come on, George, do it!"

The terrier raced back in, nosed Ron in the leg, then reared up, placed its front paws on George's chest, and seemed about to lick his face before dissipating.

"…Go on, George," said Ron. "Even if there aren't any corporeal Dementors around, all this mist means their aura is still lingering round here. Casting a patronus helps."

"Look at you, Mr. Defense Against the Dark Arts," George sneered.

"George—"

"Look, I'll clean up here for a bit. D'you think you can manage supper?"

"Yeah—yeah, I'm an okay cook now—"

"That's marvelous. Go do that, will you?"

Ron shot him a helpless look and then left the bedroom.

George slowly turned to look across the hall. Fred's door was open slightly; he could see ripped pages scattering the floor and the heavy footprints of booted feet that were not the twins'.

Quite abruptly, George sat down on the floor of his own room, looking over at Fred's. His wand was in his hand and he slowly raised it, pointed it at Fred's door, and drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and for a moment the lines on his face seemed to smooth, but then he exhaled and his brow creased.

"Expecto Patronum."

A faint plume of silver smoke sputtered out of George's wand and quickly vanished.

George dropped his head onto his arms, and did not move until the smell of burning sausages accompanied Ron's hollered summons to supper.

…

_Oy, Professor Potter? Professor Potter? Is it possible for someone's Patronus to be a fart?"_

_ "Uh—" Harry choked on a laugh. "I think it's supposed to be a sort of animal—"_

_ "Well then!" Fred elbowed George in the arm. "Guess you're a special case, Georgie!"_

_ "Like you can do any better."_

_ "Sure I can! Mine's loads more corporeal than yours."_

_ "So if mine's a fart, yours is a turd, then?"_

_ "Why don't you show me what they look like?" Harry cut over the twins. They both turned and grinned at him._

_ "Why, Harry, we'd be honored."_

_ "Never thought you'd ask."_

_ "We were starting to feel a bit neglected, Professor Potter, to tell the truth—"_

_ "You spend all your time with Cho Chang; we thought you'd forgotten about us—"_

_ "All right, all right, you guys—" _

_ "Expecto Patronum!" both twins shouted in unison._

_ Two blurry silver shapes leaped from the twins' wand. Both were both furry and four-legged; Fred's bounded across the room past Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, who shrieked, and then ran head-first into the wall and vanished. George's ran around both the twins' feet, wound its way around Fred's legs, and then dissipated before George._

_ The twins looked at each other. "Wicked."_

_ "You did it!" exclaimed Hermione; across the room, Angelina shot Fred an exasperated glare as she helped Alicia to her feet. "What were your Patronuses? I didn't quite see—"_

_ "Not sure," said Harry. "Fred's looked taller, though."_

_ Fred laughed. "Well, you know what they say about guys with big patronuses." He winked at Angelina, who ignored him. _

_ "And I think George's had a tail," finished Harry._

_ "What?" Fred looked back at the spot where his had disappeared. "You mean they weren't identical?"_

_ Harry shrugged. "Didn't look like it to me."_

_ "Well that's rubbish." Fred flipped his wand irritatedly into the air. "They ought to be identical."_

_ "Maybe they were," said George, spinning his own wand in his hand. "They were both pretty fuzzy. Looked like foxes, to me. Or nifflers"_

_ "Well either way, looks like you'll have to practice more before you can see them clearly," said Harry._

_ "Yes, Professor Potter!"_

_ "We'll work extra-hard, Professor Potter; you know us."_

_ "Yeah, we love doing extra schoolwork."_

_ "All right, all right," Harry said, a bit disgruntled. He turned around to where Seamus and Dean were practicing Stunning Spells, just in time to see Seamus's spell go wide and hit Neville in the behind. _

_ Fred and George chuckled as Harry raced across the room to catch Neville as he toppled to the ground._

_ "Poor bloke," said George._

_ "Yeah," said Fred airily. "Anyway—shall we? I liked the idea of our Patronuses being foxes."_

_ "Yeah, but this Patronus stuff is harder than Harry makes it seem." He glanced at Fred. "And they might not be the same. I thought they looked sort of different."_

_ "You did?"  
>"Yeah. I thought yours looked like an ass."<em>

_ "What?"_

_ "You know. Donkey."_

_ "Ha," Fred grunted. "That wouldn't be so bad, if our patronuses were asses. It'd fit, at least." He frowned, and shot his twin an uncharacteristically serious glare. "I just hope they're the same."_


	3. The nights are longer now

Chapter 3: The nights are longer now

September 1998

"Hello, can I help you?"

"Oh, George, dear, so glad to have you back on Diagon Alley! I'm so sorry to hear about your twin—"

"Thank you. Were you looking for the Wonder Witch products?"

"I—"

"Let me show you where they are."

So passed the summer of 1998. Though almost the entire Wizarding World was celebrating Voldemort's defeat last May, George Weasley rarely spoke about anything other than Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, even to Ron. They occasionally saw other friends from Hogwarts, as well as their family every weekend; Ron often spent weekday evenings in the Leaky Cauldron with Harry, Hermione and Ginny, but he was always home early, and he always kept a careful eye on George.

He hadn't been inside George's room since the first day they moved in—George spent almost all of his free time in there with the door firmly closed. Ron hoped that the light he could see through the crack beneath George's door both early in the morning and late at night was a nightlight. The ever-deepening shadows under George's eyes suggested otherwise.

The first time he dared knock on George's door was one evening in early September.

"George?"

"What?"

Ron pushed the door open and inched inside. He could hardly go any further; two of every piece of furniture was squeezed into the small bedroom. Two beds were pushed against the near wall, one jammed up against two wardrobes, and against the far wall, by the shuttered window, two desks stood side-by-side, Fred's still littered with all the detritus he had left upon it when last he used it. George's desk, however, was even messier; it overflowed with half-scribbled pieces of parchment and indecipherable diagrams. The curtains were drawn but a small candle bobbed in the air over George's head as he sat hunched over at his own desk. A half-empty bottle stood near his hand.

Ron stayed in the doorway. "Er—It's Hermione's birthday tomorrow. She's invited me over to her parents' house for the night."

"All right."

"—So I'll leave right after we close tomorrow. Will you be okay alone?"

"'Course I will, Ron, don't be a prat—"

"Cause, you know, Lee Jordan's not far. He's interning at the radio station on—"

"I know."

"We haven't seen him since Fred's funeral."

George merely took a drink from the bottle by his hand.

"All right," said Ron. " I'll—I'll just head out after we've finished closing up, then."

"Don't worry about it, I'll close. You can go early, if you like."

"Thanks." Ron lingered at the door. "George, when do you sleep?"

"I'm sleeping right now."

"What?"

"I've got a Time-Turner. That way I have time to sleep and to invent every night."

"You do?"

"Sure, I made it out of Pygmy Puff litter and bogey-flavored Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans."

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again. "…I miss him too," he said, his voice quiet and reproachful.

George took another drink.

So Ron gritted his teeth and closed the door again.

…

…

_To be continued! Sorry about the short chapter; I'll update soon. In the meantime, please review :)_


	4. Your absence is everywhere

_Note: I've made some edits to the past three chapters! Just canon stuff—I changed the date to 1998 since that's the year of the Battle of Hogwarts and Fred's death—not 1997, as I had written. And I had been writing the name of Fred and George's shop wrong—it's "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," with the apostrophe after the 's.' And once I even wrote "Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes." Thanks very much to cutietrp and Aurora West for pointing it out!_

…

…

Chapter 4: Your absence is everywhere

The next evening, as George was politely forcing the last few customers out of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes', someone else was pushing his way through the crowd towards the door.

"Hey," said Lee Jordan. He winced slightly as a young witch with a particularly large bag of merchandise nearly knocked him down as she turned to wave George good-bye. "How've you been?"

"How have I been?" George repeated, as if he hadn't quite understood the question. "…If that's a joke, I don't get it."

Lee slipped inside before George could close the door. "Ron already leave?"

"Yeah—"

"Thought you might want to hang out a bit tonight—"

"Ron asked you to come, didn't he?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," said Lee airily, strolling into the shop. "Are you ready, then?"

George followed him in with a scowl. "Look, if you're going to hang about, would you go downstairs and get some more of the Skiving Snackboxes? We're clean out up here."

"George—"

"What?"  
>Lee turned around—he was already halfway through the shop—and hesitated. "The way it feels in here—kind of reminds me of Dementors."<p>

George was bent over a box of particularly jumpy Chocolate Frogs, and didn't answer.

"Do you feel that?" Lee persisted.

George shrugged. "Ron said something like that."

Lee gritted his teeth. "Dementors feed on depression, you know. They hang about sad places and just make them worse."

"Well that doesn't make any sense. Who's sad around here?"

"…Look, if you ever, you know, want to talk, I'm always—"

"Just get those Snackboxes, will you?"

"I'll get them, and then we're going to the Leaky Cauldron."

"Did I say—"

"I said it," said Lee flatly.

George looked up from the box of Chocolate Frogs and glared at Lee, who didn't back down. Slowly, George stood up, and then turned around and stalked off down the aisle.

Lee took a deep breath, swinging his arms by his side. "All right." He turned and walked around the counter to the basement door. "Going well. All right."

…

Less than half an hour later Lee and George arrived in the crowded bar of the Leaky Cauldron. Both were recognized almost immediately; Lee waved back to those who greeted him, but George seemed oddly tongue-tied, and merely nodded.

"All right, Weasley?" said a wizard near the door who worked at Flourish and Blott's. George ignored him.

"Hey, look!" said Lee, waving at a group of witches across the room. Angelina Johnson was sitting with three slightly older witches who George recognized as former members of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw Quidditch teams. Lee headed towards them. His hands in his pockets, George slouched after him.

"Heidi Macavoy, Hufflepuff's star Chaser!" Lee shook her hand enthusiastically. "You were my favorite Chaser, you know. On Hufflepuff, that is. Can't discount Ravenclaw's Trinity Lynn!" He winked at the girl next to her. "How's your Nimbus 2000 doing? Still holding up? Oh, and of course, Maxine O'Flaherty—unseated every single Slytherin player over the course of her career with Hufflepuff Quidditch. One of the best Hogwarts Beaters of the century, I'd say."

"One of the best?" Maxine repeated with a grin.

"Ah, Maxine, gimme a break—I have to say that," said Lee, jerking a thumb at George. "You know George and Fred were the best Beaters Hogwarts ever saw."

Heidi, Trinity, and Maxine's smiles faded as they turned to look at George.

"Hi, George—"

"Sorry about Fred—"

"Yeah, we heard—"

"Thanks," said George loudly, and Lee hurried to draw up two more seats for them at the girls' table.

"Oh, hey there, Johnson," he said with an airy grin, squeezing his chair next to Angelina's.

"Jordan," Angelina replied just as coolly, as George sat down on Lee's other side. Her grin softened as she looked at George. "Hey, George."

"Hey."

"Been a while," said Angelina, almost nervously. George gave her a withering look, as if he were working very hard to hold his tongue.

"Oh!" said Heidi, pointing at George, Lee and Angelina. "You three were at the Battle of Hogwarts, weren't you?"

"Yeah," said Angelina and Lee together. George still said nothing. A muscle was working in his jaw.

"Wow," said Maxine. "That is—I mean to say—thanks. My brother and I are Muggle-borns—I only just got out before they started arresting us—to New Orleans in the States. My brother was supposed to follow me there, but he got picked up by Snatchers before he could escape."

"What happened?" asked George, in spite of himself.

"He spent the year in Azkaban—It was only after you all beat You-Know-Who—"

"You mean Voldemort?" said George loudly.

"Y-yeah," said Maxine, as Heidi and Trinity flinched. "Yeah, him…after, you know, the Battle of Hogwarts, my brother was released…He's still in St. Mungo's, but he's been doing better—"

George slumped back in his chair. "Good for you." He slouched toward his right, then did a double-take at Trinity, as if he had thought she was someone else, and leaned the other way, his scowl deepening.

Angelina looked meaningfully at Lee but even he seemed at a loss for words; an uncomfortable silence fell over their table as everyone struggled to avoid George's eyes.

George himself, however, had a rather ugly expression on his face. He raised an eyebrow at them all. "I realize the funny conversation-starter was usually Fred's job, but he's not here and I've got nothing."

Color filled Angelina's dark cheeks. The other girls looked mortified. Luckily, Tom the barkeep arrived at just that moment to take the boys' drink orders.

"Mr. Weasley!" said Tom with a toothless grin. "Thought it was you—hard to miss the Weasleys, with that hair! Let me get your drink for you—no charge—it's only thanks to your shop that we got any business at all in the Leaky Cauldron, back when—well, you know. Bad times. Of course, I should be charging you extra for all the glasses you broke juggling the spring before—"

"That was Fred," muttered George.

"Showing off for a couple of Korean witches, if I remember correctly—pardon?"

"Fred!" George's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "That was Fred. He dropped the glasses."

"Oh—" Tom faltered.

"It's all right," said George loudly. "We're used to people thinking of us as one person. Even our own mother used to have trouble telling us apart. That's not really a problem anymore, though. Now if you ever get confused, all you have to do is think, 'Is this the live one or the dead one?' And then you should be able to figure it out."

"We'll have a bottle of Ogden's," said Lee loudly. "And whatever the special is tonight."

Tom nodded and quickly shuffled off. Heidi, Trinity and Maxine were goggling at George, whose one ear was turning red; he glanced desperately to his right again, then towards the door, and back down at the table.

Angelina and Lee exchanged glances. Lee gave her a helpless sort of shrug.

…

…

_Gah…I don't like this chapter—it's not very good. It's sort of just a setup for the next chapter. I guess it's not supposed to be an enjoyable chapter—I just wanted to show George's first attempt at being social and the difficulties of that. I'm really sorry about this chapter. I'll post the next one in a few days._

_I also forgot to note that Heidi Macavoy, Trinity Lee, and Maxine O'Flaherty are all part of Harry Potter Canon-they're mentioned in video games and things like that. You can look them up on the Harry Potter Wiki._


	5. What it means to be alone

Chapter 5: What it means to be alone

Not a half hour later, George and Lee were sitting alone at the Leaky Cauldron booth, the girls having left moments before, Angelina with a closed expression and the other three looking caught between fear, pity, and outrage.

Lee's forced grin disappeared as soon as the girls left. "Well," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "This is new."

"Think so?" said George lightly, peering into the glass of Firewhisky in his hand. "Seems like the same old stuff to me."

"Not the Ogden's. Your 'being-a-git' thing."

"I thought I was always a git."

"Nope—you were an asshole. Charming asshole, mind. That's the trick. You and Fred were both _charming_ assholes. Girls love that. What girls don't like is gits."

"Oh, I'm sorry—d'you think I disappointed them? I feel really bad about that—"

"Look, maybe you could at least try—"

"Funny, I don't remember wanting to come—"

"Don't give me that, George; I know you're bloody lonely—"

"How d'you figure that?"

"'Cause at Hogwarts you and Fred were always making a ruckus, trying to get attention. I know, 'cause so was I. You hate being alone, mate, I know that."

"What if I want to be alone?"

"When in your life have you ever been alone for any extended period of time?" scoffed Lee.

George glared at him. "Depends. Does being with Fred count?"

"No."

"Well then never."

Lee clenched his fist. He looked as if her were only with difficulty holding his tongue. "All right," he said finally. "All right, I'm done. Let's get out of here."

They walked back to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in silence, George holding another bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky that Tom had forced on him as they left. George unlocked the door of the shop with his wand and walked inside without bidding Lee good-bye, but Lee stuck out his foot to stop the door closing and slipped in after him.

George looked over his shoulder as Lee closed the door behind him. "What're you doing?"

"It's still pretty early. Don't tell me you're going to sleep already?"

George scowled. "—Look, Lee, it's great to see you and everything—"

"Hey!" Lee slung an arm around George's shoulders. "You aren't going to kick me out before we open up that bottle of Ogdens, are you?"

"I thought I was a git."

"Naw, you'll always be a charming asshole to me."

George sighed darkly and started up the stairs to his flat, Lee close on his heels. Once upstairs, George watched sullenly from the couch as Lee uncorked the Ogdens, poured two glasses, and then launched into an animated discussion of their old Hogwarts classmates and their current whereabouts.

"...Oliver's been playing more this season, have you heard? He might be moved from the reserve list to starting Keeper in a few weeks. Neither Angelina nor Katie kept with Quidditch, though—but Angelina's in a pickup league that meets in Diagon Alley. Maybe you should check it out. They're pretty good. I've gone to a few practices, but I can't fly for dragon dung and they don't exactly need a commentator for scrimmages."

George didn't respond.

Lee leaned over to refill George's empty glass. "…Did you hear about Alicia?"

"Yeah."

"The Healers thought she was doing better—but whatever Dolohov hit her with—" He shook his head. "Her mum's a Muggle, did you know that? She didn't understand."

George closed his eyes and took a long draught from his glass.

"Yeah—we lost a lot of Gryffindors," said Lee slowly. "I had to read the lists over the wireless after the battle. Alicia, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey…and of course, Fred…" He looked up at George, whose eyes were glassy. "And—"

"Is there a point to this?" interrupted George. His voice was hoarse.

"Sorry, man, I was just—I just thought you might want to—"

"Want to what? Get drunk and have a good cry, is that what you were thinking?"

Lee grimaced. "All right, man. The truth is, I'm worried about you."

"Oh, yeah? Why is that?"

"So I think I'm gonna stay over the night. If you don't mind."

"What if I do mind?"

"That's too bad for you."

"If you want to leave, Lee, by all means feel free."

"Hell no. No way I'm leaving. Not until Ron gets back, at least. So if you don't want to talk you might as well at least pretend to be trying to sleep."

"While you sit here and watch? Kinky."

"Stop it, George!" Lee was on his feet now. "Look—I know it's hard—"

"Oh, you know, do you?"

"George!"

"WHAT?" George roared; Lee flinched as he leaped to his feet and knocked the Firewhisky bottle off the table. "What do you want from me, Lee? You want me to be happy and jokey, do you? 'Cheer me up,' is that what you're thinking? Well here's how you could cheer me up—BRING FRED BACK, OR KILL ME TOO!"

His words left a ringing in the silent room. The only sound was both boys' ragged breathing. Lee looked out of breath. Finally, he said:

"I don't want to lose you, too, mate."

The color slowly drained from George's face. He slumped back down onto the couch and tilted his head back against the wall. His eyes were open, shiny and bloodshot, but no tears gathered on his freckled cheekbones. He hardly seemed to be moving.

And for the first time that he could remember, Lee Jordan was utterly speechless.

…

Ron returned to Diagon Alley at nine thirty the next morning, a half hour before the store opened. He walked in to find George and Lee both behind the register, their faces haggard, Lee glaring at George and George determinedly scribbling in a notebook on the counter.

"Blimey," said Ron. "Did either of you sleep at all?"

"I didn't," said Lee darkly. "Dunno about this idiot, though."

"I'm a busy man, gentlemen," said George. He dropped his quill back in the inkpot with a little flourish, stood up, and raised his eyebrows at Lee and Ron. "Sleep is for the dead."

And before the others could respond he had brushed past Ron to open the front door of the shop.

Ron met Lee's gaze. Lee slowly shook his head. "He was like that the whole night. I was afraid to leave him alone."

"Yeah," Ron muttered. "Me too."

"You don't think he would—"

"I dunno."

Lee groaned. "God…But you know, if it was the other way around, I wonder if Fred wouldn't have already—"

_Smack._

Ron punched Lee across the face. Lee staggered back, clutching his cheek.

Ron's face was red, his fists balled, his face contorted. "Don't—say—that," he growled.

Lee lowered his head. "…Sorry."

Ron grunted.

"…I've gotta get back to the station," said Lee tiredly.

"Right. Thanks, Lee."

"Yeah." He turned around and walked wearily out of the shop. Ron caught up with him at the door.

"Hey—hey, Lee?"

"Yeah?"

Ron's ears were red, but he gritted his teeth and said in a low voice, "Did George—you know—cry? Last night? At all?"

Lee shook his head.

Ron sighed. "I don't think he's cried yet. Not that he's let us see or anything, at least. Though he sat out by Fred's grave all night after the funeral. …I kind of wish he would just…you know—get it all out."

Lee clapped Ron on the shoulder. Ron gave him a half-embarrassed, half-grateful grin.

"Thanks."

"Yeah. Take care of yourself, Ron."

"You too."

…

…

_Hi again! Thanks for the reviews—I haven't answered them yet, but I will! Sorry for my little freak-out about the last chapter. I'm sorry it's still so dark, but George is quite miserable right now, as you can imagine (or at least I did)—but I'm not going to leave George like this! Please stick with us and keep reading!_


	6. Please let me come too

_Author's note: Just a warning: This chapter is rated T for violent images and thoughts of death. Don't want to spoil it—but it's dark. Oh George._

…

Chapter 6: Please let me come too

Fall, 1998

…

Ron's gentle snoring from Fred's old room and the soft bustle of early morning activity on the dark street outside were the only sounds in the Weasley brothers' flat as George walked barefoot into the bathroom, his hair tousled and his eyes, puffy with tiredness, firmly closed.

Walking slowly, his hands held out in front of him, George made it across to the sink and leaned heavily against it, his hands gripping the sides, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed before the mirror. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The twin who looked back out of the mirror at him couldn't be Fred. He was too pale, too gaunt, his lips too thin; even if George turned his head to hide his missing ear—no one would have mistaken his reflection for that of Fred Weasley.

But through the tears now pooled in George's eyes that blurred his sight and refused to fall, he could almost pretend that it was Fred looking back at him.

With a little choking noise deep in his throat, his eyes never leaving the mirror, George put a hand into his pocket and withdrew his wand. He rested his elbows on the sink basin, his forehead inches from the mirror, and hung his head over the sink, turning the wand over and over in his fingers.

It would be so easy. There were so many ways to do it. A Severing Charm on his neck, or his wrists, or his chest—or he could Transfigure the air in his lungs to water, light himself on fire, Apparate a hundred, two hundred, a thousand feet upward into the air—even better, hop on a broomstick and just fly—or he could simply Summon any number of dangerous and volatile ingredients from the basement just two floors below—

Or he could go as Fred did, he thought, turning the wand over in his hands. He could blow up the bathroom, as Augustus Rookwood had blown up the walls of Hogwarts, die in an explosion of stone and fire and dust—painful, swift, and then—

George looked up from his wand to his image in the mirror, as if searching his own eyes, his own face, identical to the last freckle to his twin's, but for the missing ear—but this was not Fred's face staring back at him. Or if it was, it was a disapproving Fred; an angry, sad, disgusted Fred, who gripped George's wand in his whole, unbloodied hands and glared through the mirror at his twin.

"Please, Fred…" George whispered.

But the reflection in the mirror—the ghost of the ghost of Fred—was unremitting.

After many long moments, George slowly pushed himself upright on the sink. His movements heavy, mechanical, he pocketed his wand, turned on the tap, washed his face, and then, his eyes still closed, as Ron still snored in the room down the hall and the rising sun slowly began to peep into the darkened flat, George walked out of the bathroom and back to bed.

…

…

_A/N: Sorry for the short chapter; the next one's already written and I will update very soon!_


	7. Too long

Chapter 7:

Fall 1998

Part 1: White nights

George could hardly remember anything from the summer of 1998, except for trying to avoid the awkward stares of friends, relatives and customers. Now it was already fall, and now almost six months since Fred's death at the Battle of Hogwarts. He tried not to think of this, as it felt like someone had cast a Shrinking Spell on his lungs every time he did. He seemed to be trying not to think of a lot these past few months.

Though George still spent most nights at his desk with the light on, no new toys or pranks had come of his late-night labors, only piles and piles of discarded, scribbled-on parchment and more than a few liquor bottles. Ron took these out with the rest of the trash without comment.

…

Part 2: You've become my nightmare

George was closing out the cash register of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes one evening in early November when he heard it:

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"  
>In hardly a second George had thrown open the basement door and crashed down the stairs.<p>

"Ron?" he roared. "Ron!"

"Bloody hell!" came Ron's voice through the darkness. George lit his wand; the beam fell on his younger brother, cowering against a broken shelf by the wall, all but buried in Wonder Witch boxes, his eyes fixed on the opposite corner.

"George!" he cried when he saw his brother. "Kill it!"

George turned his wand on the dark corner and—

_"Bloody hell!"_

An enormous spider was curled up on the wall in the corner, its eight hairy legs folded beneath it, its mandibles slowly opening and closing. It blinked red eyes blindly into George's wandlight, seemed to quiver—and then with a whooshing sound there was nothing but a plain, unadorned mirror lying on the floor beneath where it had been.

George edged toward it as Ron got noisily to his feet behind him.

"Must be a boggart," Ron said, pulling out his own wand.

George snorted. "That explains a lot. Big baby—" He reached the mirror and, without thinking, peered into it. There, peering back at him, his face pale in the wandlight, was his own—Fred's—face. George drew in a breath—

The mirror-Fred grinned back at George—a wide, manic, cruel, hateful sneer that he had never worn in life—George let out a cry and staggered back, and suddenly Fred was rising out of the mirror, the glass shrinking as he grew, and then Fred Weasley stood in the basement of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes before his two younger brothers, dressed in the bloody, tattered clothes he had worn as he died, his pale skin dusty and torn, his lips frayed, his left arm bent at a terrible angle. He stretched out a hand and George stumbled back to the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes wide and fixed on Fred's.

"It's a boggart!" Ron shouted from behind him, his voice cracking, as Fred, his eyes burning with cruel light, opened his mouth. "George, it's a boggart, it's not—"

"GEORGE! Why did you let me die, why did you let me die, George, it's your fault—"

"George, get out of the way!" Ron roared.

"Your own twin, you let your own twin die, and you're still alive, why are you still alive—"

"I'm sorry!" George cried, his own voice ragged. "I'm sorry, Fred—"

"Get back, George—"

"You never loved me, you never loved me, it's your fault—"

"RIDDIKULUS!"

A loud crack cut Fred off and he vanished in a puff of grey smoke; George, on the ground, and Ron, behind him, wand brandished, both stared as it drifted slowly over the dark basement in Ron's shaking wandlight and finally dissipated.

Then Ron took a step forward. "George—"

George turned his head to look at Ron. Their eyes met, blue on blue: their father's eyes, Fred's eyes—

In a moment, without thinking, Ron had crossed the basement, crashed to his knees beside George, and put his arms around him, and then George was crying, terrible screaming sobs that shook both their bodies. He tried to push Ron off, but Ron would not let go, and then George was punching him, hitting him, clutching the collar of Ron's robes even as he sobbed into them, and Ron was all but wrestling with his brother, tears streaming down his own face, trying to both hold him and fight him off.

Even after his tears were spent George's shoulders continued to lurch with dry sobs, his face pressed into Ron's tear-soaked shoulder, but finally his sobs became groans and then, quite abruptly, as if he had exhausted himself of every tear and emotion, he fell quiet, limp and heavy in Ron's arms.

Ron patted him uncertainly on the head. "George?"

George shook his head, his grip on Ron's robe still half-choking him. He didn't seem to be breathing, but Ron could feel the vibrations from his chest as he muttered something.

"Sorry?"

"Why not me instead?"

"…George—"

"Or at least take both of us."

Ron's face was ash-white beneath his freckles. "George, don't say that."

"I had plenty of chances too, even after he died. Yaxley almost killed me in the Great Hall." George rocked his head on Ron's shoulder. "Lee deflected the curse." He groaned again. "If I had died, could Fred have come back?"

"George, stop it! How d'you think the rest of us'd feel if we lost both of you?"

But George didn't respond, didn't meet Ron's eye. He seemed unable to speak.

So, with an effort, Ron pulled his shorter, older brother to his feet and half-guided, half-carried him out of the basement, through the shop, and up to his bedroom. When they reached his bed, George pitched forward face-first onto the covers and lay there, still and heavy as death.

Ron watched him for a moment, uncertain. He tried to pull the covers out from under George but he was too heavy, so he simply pulled out his wand, murmured "_Tergeo_," and gently siphoned off some of the dust and dirt caking George's hair and clothes. Then, with a helpless last look at George, he quietly backed out of the room and closed the door.

…

Part 3: Family ties

George didn't come down from his room until it was time to open the shop the next morning, and he still looked exhausted, his eyes red and puffy. He stayed in the back of the store as much as he could, avoiding people's eyes, leaving Ron and Verity to deal with the customers. George sat with Ron for dinner that evening and picked quietly at his plate, and then went straight up to his room.

At 8 pm, Ron crept up the stairs and peeked into his room. But George appeared to be sound asleep, sprawled out on top of the covers once more, still in his day clothes, though there was no touch of rest in his weary face. Slowly, Ron closed the door again.

And so, after three months of sleepless nights, suddenly George was sleeping ten, eleven, twelve hours a day.

"At least he drinks less," Ron said to Hermione as they sat together on a couch in the Weasley living room one evening later that month. "Doesn't drink at all, really—just works and sleeps."

"I suppose he has a lot of sleep to catch up on?" said Hermione nervously.

"Yeah, I guess." Ron gritted his teeth. His arm tightened around Hermione's shoulder. "This is going to be an awful Christmas."

"Don't say that," said Hermione in a pained voice. "It'll—"

"First Christmas without Fred," said Ron brusquely. "Of course it will be."

Hermione bit her lip. Then, very quietly, she said, "Fred wouldn't want that."

Ron looked at her, his eyes strangely shiny.

"Fred would hate to think that Christmas was awful because of him. I mean—don't we—owe it—to him to be happy? He d-died for that, after all."

Ron's face screwed up. He nodded mutely.

"Why don't we get some people together for New Years', then?" said Hermione. She squeezed Ron's hand. When he still didn't respond, she reached up to wipe a tear from Ron's long nose. He smiled weakly at her.

"Well, we'll get Lee, and Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell and Oliver Wood and all of that lot," said Ron. "And Harry and Ginny, of course."

"It'll be fun," said Hermione firmly.

"Yeah." Ron's small smile broadened as he looked down at Hermione. "…Thanks."

She dropped her head to Ron's shoulder and they fell silent, their arms around each other, staring into the Burrow's living room fire.

...

...

_Yay Ron and Hermione! I love them :) Sorry there isn't too much in the way of a concentrated plot in this fic, beyond the search for closure. Please stick with me, though! I am going somewhere!_


	8. You have to try to talk about it

Chapter 8: You have to try to talk about it

December 1998-Janary 1999

New Years' Eve found George, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Lee Jordan, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Oliver Wood and his girlfriend, a Chaser on Puddlemere United, all seated around a large table at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Oliver was enthusiastically questioning Ginny, the new Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, about her current team and their yearly standings; Lee, Katie, Angelina and George were talking about former classmates at Hogwarts; and Ron and Harry were talking with Hermione, who had just arrived from her parents' house that morning.

"Bill and Fleur are pregnant!" Hermione was squealing. "Why didn't you tell me sooner!"

"They just told us at Christmas," said Ron defensively, grinning. "And I knew I'd be seeing you in a week, so—"

"Oh, that's so great!" said Hermione delightedly. "My Christmas was very quiet, just me and my parents—yours must have been more interesting—" she shot Ron a significant, questioning glance, but before Ron could answer a roar of laughter from the other side of the table cut him off.

"And Stebbins?" giggled Katie. "Is he still dating Fawcett?"

"Stebbins?" repeated Lee gleefully. "The bloke Fred turned into a badger?"

"What?" shrieked Katie as the rest of the table looked up in surprise (Ginny looked quite relieved at the break in Oliver's interrogation).

"I remember that," Angelina said, giggling into her butterbeer.

"Yeah, he was pestering 'em for help in Transfiguration in—what? Fourth year?"

"Oh, poor boy," Katie giggled. "You might have given him a bit of help, George."

"George did!" said Lee before George could answer. "Showed him the right way to hold his wand for Cross-Species Transfigurations—"

"Was it really the right way?" said Angelina skeptically.

"Yes, it was!" cried Lee, clapping George on the shoulder and accidentally spilling some of George's Firewhisky onto the table. "Who d'you think George is, Ange—Fred? …But still, Stebbins wouldn't leave them alone. Stupid prat. And Professor McGonagall couldn't hear him begging Fred and George for help because of the Voice-Dampening Spell they'd put around themselves, am I right, mate?"

"We'd just got the idea for things like the Canary Creams," George told the rest of the table. "Took us a few years; It's bloody hard to do quick human-animal Transfigurations. We wanted to be able to talk about Cross-Species Switches in class without McGonagall hearing."

"Yeah," said Lee, "So, problem was, McGonagall couldn't hear Stebbins, either. I was watching the whole thing from the other side of the classroom—I was talking to Angelina here—"

He clapped Angelina on the shoulder, who snorted and looked about to fire a retort, but Lee continued over her:

"And then I just see Fred wave his wand—there was no bang, the Voice Dampener Spell was still up—and then Stebbins the badger was sitting on the chair! McGonagall was furious! But—you know what Fred says?" Lee continued as the rest of the table laughed. "'But, Professor McGonagall, he was badgering us!'"

Katie, Ginny and Angelina shrieked with laughter. Ron was rolling around in his chair. Even Hermione was giggling. "Quite a good bit of magic," she said.

"McGonagall thought so," said Lee, chuckling. "Gave Fred a detention and full marks for the class." He raised his glass. "I think that deserves a toast. To Fred!"

"To Fred," echoed the others around the table. They all drank deeply from their glasses.

"And Alicia," Angelina added, raising her glass again. "And everyone who died at Hogwarts."

"Alicia." The nine of them drank from their glasses again. For a long moment no one spoke.

"Is there a memorial or something at Hogwarts? To the people that died defending it?" asked Harry presently.

"Someone should make a memorial out of Fred's Hogwarts detention file, at least," said Ron.

"There is," said Ginny to Harry. "By the Entrance Hall. Has Fred's name on it, and Tonks and Lupin and Colin Creevey and everyone else. Alicia's name is at the bottom, 'cause she died later in St. Mungo's. And the Portable Swamp is still up, too. Flitwick even put a little plaque next to it, with Fred and George's names, and a little bit about Fred's death."

"Good," said Angelina.

George's grip tightened on his glass.

Lee looked at him. "Oi, George, who ended up—who was winning?"

"Me," said George. "Though if you'd asked Fred he'd have said it was him."

"What?" said Ron.

"Technicality," said George airily, draining his glass.

"No, who was winning what?"

"Most detentions," said George.

Hermione looked appalled. "You were _competing—_"

"What'd you do to get Fred back for the badger detention?" Ginny interrupted.

"Tell 'em, George," said Lee, urging him on with a wave of his glass.

"It was the next time Derrick and Bole tried to have a tussle with us," said George. "The old Slytherin beaters, remember? They were always trying to jump us in the corridor. Too bad they were too thick to put two spells together. Bole tossed a curse at us, and Fred dodged it, raised his wand to jinx him back, but I hit Fred with the Full Body-Bind Curse from behind, and then I got Derrick and Bole myself. They were sneezing up great purple bogies for the rest of the day."

"I remember that," said Oliver sternly as Ron, Harry and Ginny laughed. "I used to get notices every time you two got detentions, when I was captain. Snape kept threatening to get you kicked off the team, but McGonagall wouldn't let him."

"Yeah, Snape's the one who gave me the detention for the purple bogies incident," said George. "Tried to get Fred too—even did Priori Incantatem on Fred's wand, but of course he was totally innocent, through no fault of his own. The last spell he'd used was to sear his asphodel roots in Snape's own class. And Fred had a great burn across his face where Bole's spell'd grazed him. So I was the only one who got detention for that one."

"I dunno who was angrier, Fred or Snape," chuckled Lee, refilling his and George's glasses.

"So who was really winning?" said Ron. "The detention competition?"

"I was," said George. "When we left in seventh year, I had done one more detention than Fred. But the last night we were at Hogwarts, Fred went out and got himself a double-detention."

"Umbridge caught him booby-trapping her office door," said Lee. "Of course, he wanted to be caught. Wanted to nab a few more detentions before they left."

"I remember that!" said Angelina. "We were playing Exploding Snap in the common room, George and I, and Fred came in, said he'd got a double detention for the next two nights. He was laughing, but George was so angry!"

"Like hell I was," growled George; Angelina and Hermione both shot George swift, concerned looks, but the others were laughing too hard to notice the change in his voice. "We had agreed we'd spend our last night at Hogwarts with our friends, and then he goes and one-ups me."

"Sounds like Fred," said Ron with a sad chuckle, draining his butterbeer.

"Well, Fred left before he sat for those detentions, so I guess you're winning, George," said Lee genially. He lifted his glass again. "To Fred! Our friend and brother. You're sorely missed down here, mate."

"To Fred," echoed the others.

In the ensuing silence that fell again, George sighed deeply. "Yeah, Fred was always the mad one."

Katie Bell giggled. "I thought you were both pretty mad, personally. Remember when you almost killed me with your Nosebleed Nougat at practice?"

"What?" sputtered Oliver, choking on his butterbeer.

"Yes!" cried Angelina, pounding Oliver on the back. "That's when I was captain. Oh my God, I was so mad at Fred—"

George waved a hand at Katie. "No, no. We're both nutters. No question. But Fred—Fred's the mad one.

"Like when we busted out of Hogwarts under that hag's nose. We should've just booked it, but Fred has to stop and deliver a parting shot at her. 'Give her hell from us, Peeves!' Sure, it makes a great story, but if she'd been just an ounce eviller, she'd have killed him right there!

"See, he doesn't think about these things. He's got to get his one-liners out before he can go. If he hadn't been making fun of Percy maybe he'd have stopped for half a second and thought, 'Hey, I'm in the middle of a bloody war. I should keep my eyes open!' But no!"

"George!" Angelina reached across Lee to hold his arm, but George jerked her off.

"It's not Percy's fault," Ron said quietly, his ears red.

"I KNOW IT'S NOT!" George roared. "It's Fred's! It's his fault!"

"But he wasn't teasing Percy, either," persisted Ron, a sort of desperation in his voice. "He was just joking—trying to make him smile, I dunno, like you two always did—"

"Didn't end up being worth it, then, did it?" muttered George.

Silence fell around the table. Lee, Angelina, Hermione, and Oliver and his girlfriend had their eyes fixed on George, but Ginny, Harry and Ron seemed unable to look at him. George picked up his drink, then set it down again, and said, as if unable to stop himself, "That's why they shouldn't have split us up. I might have seen it. Maybe I could have…"

"No, George," said Harry, "that wouldn't have helped—it was so sudden, none of us saw—"

"What do you know?" George spat. "That's the way it always worked—'cause half of causing trouble is getting away with it. So when it came down to it, Fred'd be the instigator and I'd have his back, and then we'd leave together—always together."

He fell quiet. The others at his table—most of the pub, in fact, were all looking at him.

George cocked his head. "Guess that means it's my fault, then."

"No!" cried Ron, Hermione, Harry and Angelina all at once.

George said nothing. He was trembling from head to foot, his pale face slowly turning bright red as he noticed the silence that had descended on the entire pub. Quite abruptly, he stood up.

Hermione elbowed Ron and shot him a '_do something!'_ look. He glared helplessly back at her and muttered, "Do what?"

"Sorry," George muttered. "…I'm gonna go."

"No," Hermione squeaked. "Don't go—"

"Let him," said Ginny. "If he wants to be like this, let him—"

"Ginny!" said Ron.

But Ginny had an uncharacteristically ugly look on her face; she neither responded to Ron nor looked at George, who had already slipped out from between Lee and Ron and started off through the crowded pub—though not soon enough to fail to overhear:

"Lee, maybe you shouldn't've—"

"—He has to try to talk about it—"

"—He acts like he's the only one who misses him—"

"—It's still too soon, I guess—"

George banged open the front door of the Three Broomsticks and stalked outside into the snowy streets of Hogsmeade. His face was bright red.

Christmas had been bad enough…Bill and Fleur's happy announcement had been almost enough to mask the melancholy that hung over dinner time, over prsent-unwrapping, over every conversation by the fire—

"Oy, George!"

"Wait!"

George turned around. Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson were running through the lightly falling snow. He stopped, his face blank, hands in his cloak pockets, and waited for them to reach him. If either of them mentioned Fred one more time, thought George, inhaling sharply through his nose, if either of them said his name one more time…Just one more time…

"Listen, George," said Angelina as they reached his side. "Just wanted to say—you should come play Quidditch with us! Wednesday nights in the park south of Diagon Alley. We're just a pickup league but we're pretty good, going to start scrimmaging some of the other teams in the area soon—"

"You want me to play Beater?" George interrupted.

Angelina faltered. "Well—yes—"

"So you've already got one Beater and you're looking for another?"

She flushed. "Well, yes."

"No thanks." George turned to go but suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back around, and George found himself face-to-face with Lee.

"George!" Lee shouted, seizing the front of George's cloak with both fists and shaking him. "Damn it, George! Just go play Quidditch, alright?" Something small was twinkling beneath Lee's eye, and as it slid down his dark cheek George realized, with a sort of detached bemusement, that it was a tear.

Abruptly Lee pushed George away from him. George stumbled back a step, still staring at Lee, who curled his fists and averted his eyes, his face contorted. Angelina stood between them, looking from one to the other.

"Look," she spoke up, "I'm going to see both of you home. Don't protest or give me any of that chivalry bullshit or I'll be very cross, all right? We're all tired. Let's just go."

Lee and George didn't respond, so Angelina let out a snort and grabbed both their hands. But George pulled back.

"'M' not staying at Diagon Alley."

Lee and Angelina looked at him.

"'M' staying at the Burrow for the holidays," he muttered.

Angelina nodded. She squeezed both their hands, turned on her heel, and together the three of them vanished from the dark, snowy Hogsmeade street.


	9. Don't know what to do with you

Chapter 9: Don't know what to do with you

They reappeared just beyond the Burrow's garden hedge. Angelina breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew! Knew I could do it."

Lee pounded her on the shoulder. George wobbled on his feet.

The other two hurried to steady him. "Woah—what's—"

"S'okay," muttered George. The compressed feeling that always accompanied Apparition didn't seem to have left him. "I'm fine."

"He's drunker than he thinks," Lee said darkly. "C'mon, let's get him inside."

George didn't speak. He was afraid of what would come out if he opened his mouth.

So, with one of his arms around Lee's shoulders and his other linked around Angelina's, George was walked up the garden path to the Burrow. At the door, they had to pause for a few embarrassing moments while Angelina searched George's pocket for his house key. George couldn't bring himself to help her; it was with dread that he watched Angelina unlock the door and lead the way into the Weasleys' kitchen.

"Where's their room?" Angelina whispered as the three of them walked through the kitchen to the living room.

"Third floor," said Lee.

"No," George grunted. "Bill 'n Fleur're in our room."

"What?"

"Couch! Couch is fine."

George topped face-first onto one of the sagging old couches in the Weasley living room, and Angelina found him a blanket while Lee started a small fire in the grate. Then they both stepped back.

George's face was grayish; his face and flaming red hair glistened in the firelight with melting snow. His eyes were closed but he stirred slightly, then muttered, his ear turning red, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," said Lee hollowly. Angelina nodded beside him.

"Remember—remember Quidditch," she said. "You ought to come…"

George grunted.

Angelina and Lee hovered by his side. Then, both turned uncertainly and let themselves out of the Burrow. Angelina closed the door quietly after her.

…

…

He didn't remember falling asleep, but suddenly became aware that he was colder, and that there was noise in the kitchen.

"—He might be back at the flat," said Ron's voice. "D'you think I should go look—"

"No need," Ginny muttered. "He's in there."

"Oh."

Ginny exhaled sharply. The sound of footsteps grew fainter.

George's head hurt. He kept his eyes closed as the murmuring continued, and then two kisses followed by two pairs of feet on the stairs told him that Ginny and Hermione had gone up to bed. Then came the sound of several cabinets opening.

"Yeah," Ron was saying fervently, over the sound of something being unwrapped. "That'd be wicked. But, I dunno—"

"They said they don't care we didn't do our last year at Hogwarts. S'long as we commit to the three-year training they've pretty much as good as accepted us."

"Yeah, but—the shop—"

Ron and Harry fell silent. George swallowed; his face felt very damp but his mouth was dry. He had to struggle to hear Ron continue:

"I do like it there. 'Course, Auror stuff'd be cooler—but I don't think—I dunno about George."

There was the faint sound of chewing. Then:

"Sorry," said Ron.

"No—no—I'm sorry," said Harry, his voice muffled. "I'm—"

They fell silent again.

George could feel himself trembling, but he didn't quite understand why. He wanted to move; he felt wild—but his body was so heavy. He lay still as Ron and Harry finally trooped past the couch and up the stairs to Ron's top-floor room.

…

…

_The night's not over for George yet! To be continued, still! And later on George will eventually get to Quidditch practice with Angelina :) Stay tuned!_


	10. My mother's son

Chapter 10: My mother's son

Soon after Ron and Harry went up to bed, or so it seemed to him, George's body jerked. Someone was hovering over him. Then he realized with a sort of freezing feeling that it was his mother. Molly Weasley was seated on the floor next to the couch, one hand on George's forehead, and holding his hand with her other. Her face was very close to his; it looked like she had fallen asleep while kissing his forehead.

George lay very still, his eyes wide. Molly's face was deeply lined, and there was a terrible sorrow around her eyes and the corners of her mouth that made George's own heart ache. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks. But, inexplicably, Molly's lips were curved in a smile.

After a moment she began to stir; George felt her eyelashes brush his nose and quickly closed his own eyes. Molly straightened slightly, and her hand on George's forehead began to move again, gently stroking his hair.

For some reason he desperately wished she wouldn't. But he couldn't bring himself to move. When the twins were very little, Molly would stroke both their heads at the same time to get them to sleep, one hand per twin. The only time she had ever stroked just George's head was when he was six years old—he and Fred had been tormenting Charlie, who usually bore up, but that day he cracked and took a swing at them—Fred ducked and George caught his much stronger older brother's punch across his face. Later that night, after Fred was sound asleep, Molly had come in to check on George and found him lying awake with the pain in his cheek. Despite having yelled herself hoarse at him, Fred and Charlie just hours earlier, Molly sat herself down on the edge of George's bed and gently stroked his hair until he too had fallen asleep.

Without meaning to George opened his eyes. Molly was smiling at him.

"Go back to sleep, George, dear," she whispered.

George grunted.

Molly's smile grew both wider and sadder. "I could hardly sleep for months after your Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon died. My only brothers. I was just pregnant with you and Fred when they were—I had such nightmares—"

"Not nightmares," George said hoarsely.

Molly waited, silent, while George swallowed thickly. He was aware of the smell of alcohol that lingered about him; it was almost without his own permission that he said with difficulty, "…The worst is waking up. My first thought's always 'Where's Fred?' 'What're we going to do today?' 'I've got to tell Fred something..' And then…the second thought… 'Oh. Right. He's dead.'"

"Oh…" Molly pressed her hand more firmly to George's forehead. He was shaking now, his eyes still squeezed shut, and he seemed to be struggling to breathe.

"I h-hate…that I hate…family dinners now," George continued thickly. "They're too quiet."

Molly planted a kiss on George's forehead. He felt her tears slide down his own damp cheeks. "You don't have to be Fred now, you know, dear," she said softly. "George is enough."

"What am I s-supposed to say?"

"Anything you want, George."

He lurched with a terrible laugh. "You wouldn't want to hear that."

"George, you are my son. I want to know everything about you."

"You c-can't. Half of me's dead."

"George—"

But George could no longer speak; his teeth were gritted together and tears were streaming down his face as his shoulders jerked with silent sobs. Molly made to embrace him, but suddenly George lurched upright and sprang to his feet.

"Water," he croaked, and staggered into the kitchen.

It was as if his brain had collapsed under this weight; 'Water' was the only thought left in his aching head as he cupped his hands under the tap, splashed it into his face, thirstily drank some from his cupped palms. 'Water, water, water'—until his eyelids were no longer sticky, until his nose was a bit clearer, until his throat no longer burned. Then, dully, George turned around and slouched back into the living room.

His mother was sitting on the couch. He made to go past her, up to his room, but his eyes met hers in spite of himself; Molly stretched out her arms to him and without thinking George deviated towards the couch.

He all but fell forward into his mother's arms, and she rested his head in her lap, tucked his long legs up on the end of the couch, and continued to stroke George's hair.

"…You know, George, dear, when you wake up tomorrow you're still going to wonder where Fred is again."

George made a choking noise but said nothing.

"It doesn't go away, this pain. A year from now—fifty years from now—you'll still be missing Fred."

A tear squeezed out of George's tightly shut eyes.

"But—oh George," Molly sniffed, "You're going to be happy again, too. You will be happy. You still have a family that loves you, and friends that love you, and a bright mind and a lovely personality. You've got your Quidditch, and your shop—yours and Fred's, and I'm so proud of you, George, though I doubted you two at the beginning."

George's fist clenched on Molly's apron. She cradled his head, tears streaming down her own cheeks and onto his face.

"Oh, my baby boy—I wish I could protect you forever. All of you. But I—I can't—I can only try. Oh, George…I am trying…"

…

…

_I'm posting as quickly as I can! I'm afraid of dragging it out, but I also don't want to rush it. Please review!_

_Also: Edit: I just deleted the first bit of this, which was a rather pointless flashback of the twins talking about making patronuses. I'm going somewhere with this patronus thing!  
><em>


	11. Living

Chapter 11

Winter to Spring 1999

Part 1: Sleepwalking

If the Weasley family feared that the Christmas of 1998-1999 was a sign of worse to come for George, they were apparently mistaken. In the weeks and months that followed, George was genial, even funny, if comparatively quiet. He continued to work at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes with Ron and to visit home on the weekends, and rarely mentioned Fred's name.

The store was not enjoying the explosive growth it had seen when the twins started it together in 1996, but the fame it had built up in the two years since then was more than enough to fill George and Ron's pockets with gold. Though George's late-night travails at his desk still yielded no new tricks or pranks, he improved upon several existing items. He also no longer seemed to go too far out of his way to track down less-than-legal ingredients, though several times he and Ron (or sometimes Lee) could be seen arguing pricings with some seedy-looking witches and wizards over drinks at the Leaky Cauldron.

"Fred was always a bit better at this," George told Ron one evening in February as they walked back to their flat from a meeting with Willy Widdershins at the Leaky Cauldron. "Haggling, I mean. Marketing stuff. He had a flair for catchy adverts and things. D'you remember—"

"U-No-Poo," he and Ron said together. Ron grinned. "'The constipation sensation that's sweeping the nation.' Bloody brilliant."

"Yeah," laughed George. "I came up with the idea for the stuff itself, but it was Fred who thought up that name. He—" But then George broke off. "…Yeah, it was his idea," he finished. Ron saw a muscle ticking in George's jaw.

Ron himself seemed to be enjoying working at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, particularly since they had hired another clerk, as this meant both that Ron had less work and that there was someone else on which George could demonstrate their wares. He spent most of his evenings with Hermione and Ron, and he no longer watched George out of the corner of his eye with that scared, cautious look. He never once mentioned leaving for Auror training.

All in all, George seemed almost happy. But sometimes, in a quiet moment or a lull in conversation, his family and friends would catch George staring at a clock, or a calendar, or his watch, a look of quiet desperation, almost horror, on his—face, but when he noticed eyes on him he would grin and crack jokes until the others were almost convinced they had imagined it.

In any case, the first memorable incident occurred on April first, Fred and George's twenty-first birthday.

…

Part 2: Happy birthday

The afternoon of April first, the Weasleys and their guests were playing five-a-side Quidditch in the orchard that afternoon, no Seekers: Ron, Angelina and a reluctant Hermione as Chasers, George as Beater, and an even more reluctant Percy as Keeper, on one team; and Ginny, Lee and Harry as Chasers, Charlie as Beater, and Bill as Keeper on the other. It was hard to tell who was a worse Keeper, Percy or Bill, for although Percy seemed hardly able to stay on his broom, Bill was very distracted by Fleur, eight months pregnant and sitting on the side of the orchard watching them play. More than once he told Charlie and George off for letting the Bludgers get too close to her.

"Get back in goal, Bill!" shouted Ron, who seemed more annoyed than the rest by Bill's poor keeping.

"Shut up, Ron, he's on their team!" said Angelina, knocking the Quaffle out of Lee's hands. She tossed it to Hermione, who caught it with both hands against her chest, and then hurled it through the goal post Bill had vacated with a shriek of victory.

"I did it!"

Ron was prevented giving her a congratulatory hug by a Bludger that whizzed between them. George caught up to it before it struck Angelina, who had streaked up the edge of the pitch to be Hermione's wing, but then just as he had soared past them, Charlie knocked the other Bludger toward Angelina to stop her from marking Ginny, who now had the Quaffle.

"Angelina!"

She looked up just as George braked hard and shot back around—and had to duck to avoid not only the Bludger but George himself, who was dangling off his broom at breakneck speeds, his bat raised.

"Stop showing off, George!" Lee shouted amiably as George's bat just made contact with the speeding Bludger but then George lost his balance. Angelina shrieked as he spiraled off toward the ground and disappeared with a crash into the thick orchard below.

"George!"

Angelina reached him first, swerving expertly through the orchard trees to land hard next to George's prone body, lying crumpled at the foot of an apple tree, his broom a few feet away.

"George!" she cried, seizing his shoulders to turn him over. "Are you—"

No, he was breathing. In fact—he was chuckling. He opened his eyes and smirked at her.

"Gotcha."

Angelina rocked back on her heels, her mouth open. Slowly her eyebrows drew together in a scowl.

"George Weasley, if you do that again, I'll kill you."

"Oh," George laughed as he rolled over onto all fours. "Please do." He stood up and turned around, to see Angelina still kneeling on the ground, staring up at him with a different expression on her face, one that made George quail a bit.

"It was just a joke, Ange," he said as she got to her feet as well.

"Don't joke like that."

"I'm sorry," he said airily.

"Oi!" Charlie, Ron, Harry and Ginny had just landed behind Angelina. "You all right?"

Neither George nor Angelina turned around. Angelina was glaring now. "I'm serious, George, if you—"

"Relax, okay? If I was going to do it I'd have done it a while ago—"

Angelina slapped him so hard that George stumbled over a tree root and almost fell again. The others gaped as Angelina picked up her broom, whipped around, brushed her braids over her shoulder, and stalked back through the trees to the pitch.

"What—" began Ron, then stopped with a grunt as Ginny elbowed him in the stomach and Harry stepped on his foot.

George picked up his broom too. "Don't think she likes my sense of humor too much," he said lightly.

…

Part 3: Say something

That evening, after the others had either left or retired to the Burrow's living room, George was sitting outside in the field behind the garden, his shoulders against a tombstone and his head tilted back. A slice of birthday cake with a single candle rested on the ground beside him. The night was windless; it was deathly quiet until George spoke.

"…I'm a git. Right?"

Silence was his only response. George tilted his head to look at the tombstone and raised a hand to trace the letters engraved in its surface.

"All right, you don't have to say it. I'm a git. But what do you want me to do about it?"

Still nothing.

George swore. "Fred—" But then his voice caught. He stood up and looked at the tombstone, its polished surface glinting in the evening light.

After many more minutes, when the sky was all but dark, George finally turned his back on the grave with the slice of cake resting atop it, and the tombstone bearing the words: 'Fred Gideon Weasley: beloved son, brother, twin and friend.'

…

…

_A/N:_

_I'm posting as fast as I can because I'm going back to school tomorrow (senior year of college! Ah!) and because I need closure on this, lol. I'm still worried a bit about the slowish pacing—I almost deleted this chapter, but then I couldn't bear to take Hermione's goal away from her, and I also needed George and Angelina to have a bit of a tiff to catalyze the next chapter :) That's all I'll say for now. Thanks so much to everyone for all your reviews and support!_

_Last note: Fred and George's middle names are never explicitly stated in the story, but as you can see I've given Fred the middle name of 'Gideon' after his maternal uncle, and, predictably, given George the middle name 'Fabian,' after Gideon's brother. It's not too important, just a little detail that comes up a few more times in this story that I quite like :)_


	12. What I'm trying to say

Chapter 12: What I'm trying to say

Mid-April, 1999

A week or two later, on a Wednesday evening, George Weasley Apparated with a loud crack onto the Quidditch pitch south of Diagon Alley. There were already eight or so people sitting on the bench at the side, almost finished with lacing up their Quidditch gear.

They all turned around and looked at him.

George looked as if he wasn't quite sure how he had gotten there. "Er…Is Angelina Johnson here?"

"No," said a young man George vaguely recognized as having been a few years older than him at Hogwarts. "You're George Weasley, right? She said you might be coming—ages ago, though."

"Yeah—sorry. …I thought Angelina was captain?"

"Yeah, she is, but she had to work late tonight."

"Work late?" George repeated.

"Yeah," said the young man. "Guess a bunch of Ministry people are working late again. It's probably Angelina's turn to do the overtime."

"Of course they're working late!" said a blonde girl that George thought was a member of the Bones family. "Got quite a lot of shit to sort out, don't they?"

"Angelina works for the Ministry?" said George blankly.

"Yeah." The others on the team were now giving him odd looks, as if they suspected he might be a particularly bungling Death Eater. "You didn't know?"  
>George shook his head.<p>

" She works in the daycare, watching the Ministry witches' and wizards' kids."

"That's in the Ministry of Magic building, right?" said George.

"Yeah—but aren't you going to play Quidditch—"

"Er…not today, sorry—excuse me—" And with that George turned on his heel and vanished from the pitch.

…

The last time George had been in the Ministry building was the summer of his and Fred's twelfth year, when Mr. Weasley had taken the twins to work with him to give a much-harassed Mrs. Weasley a day's peace. One hundred diarrheic owls later, Mr. Weasley had been forced to promise never to bring Fred and George to work again. Uncoincidentally, this was also when the Ministry switched from owls to charmed paper airplanes for inter-departmental memos.

Despite his long absence, however, George was able to find the daycare without too much difficulty: It was a large, steeple-ceilinged room just off the Atrium, with cheery yellow walls and windows that all looked out onto a beautiful sunset. Only ten or so children, all under the age of ten and all looking rather dejected, were grouped around a tall black woman with thick, curly, poofy hair, who had her hand on the head of the nearest child.

"I'm sure Daddy will be here soon, Samantha," she was saying in a firm but kind voice, "but we'll have fun in the meantime, won't we—" She looked up as George entered.

"George?"

"'Scuse me, I was looking for—_Angelina_?"

The woman pushed back a strand of her thick hair. " What're you doing here?"

"Woah," said George. "Done something with your hair, I see."

Angelina's hair, which she had kept braided in tight cornrows since their second year at Hogwarts, now hung free about her shoulders, thick and curly and even bushier than Hermione's.

"Oh." She took a hair band off her wrist and bound back her clouds of hair (it poofed out again after the tie, almost as big as before). "Yes, thought I'd try a change."

"Looks nice," said George.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Your hair's now so big, it makes the rest of you look tiny in comparison."

Two of the little girls at Angelina's side giggled.

She gave an impatient sniff. "Ha ha. Very funny. What're you doing here?"

"You weren't at Quidditch practice. The others told me you were working late."

"Oh. Well, you might have told me you were going to come to practice today!"

George shrugged. "I didn't know—It's busy, you know, at the store—"

He was cut off by a sudden gasp from Angelina.

"KEVIN!"

George jumped as Angelina raced past him to the far wall—where, perched at the top of a toy cabinet was an aquarium filled with many multicolored, plainly terrified fish. and one little boy whose legs were kicking in the air.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" shouted Angelina, brandishing her wand, and the dripping little boy soared out of the aquarium and, shrieking and spattering water, landed with a gentle bump by Angelina's feet.

"Kevin!" Angelina said sternly. "How many times have I told you? _Tergeo_!" she added, waving her wand over the boy to siphon the water off him. "You mustn't torment the fish!"

"You wouldn't let me see your wand," Kevin muttered darkly.

"You're not allowed a wand."

"I asked nicely."

"Your mother specifically told me to watch my wand around you—"

"You want a wand?" George interrupted. "You can have this one."

"George!" cried Angelina as George held out a wand to the little boy. Kevin snatched it quickly before Angelina could stop him, his face alight with glee—and then let out a squawk of outrage as the wand belched loudly and turned into a long, thin, slimy slug.

"That is disgusting," said Angelina.

Kevin, however, looked delighted. He gave the slug a good shake, and with a squelching sound it turned back into a wand again.

His and George's chuckles, however, were cut off by another shout. "'Leena! 'Leena, Jerry said I smell like troll bogies!"

Angelina looked back at the other children, still sitting on the carpet: two had started fighting over a toy broomstick, and Samantha was now crying openly as the boy next to her chanted, "I can't stop, I can't stop! I've chugged Veritaserum, I have to say the truth, and the truth is, Samantha smells like troll bogies, Samantha smells like troll bogies—"

"Merlin's beard," muttered Angelina. She seized Kevin's hand. "Come on, Kevin—"

"No!" Kevin shouted.

"'LEENA!" shrieked Samantha.

"Yeech!" Angelina cried; Kevin had just struck her hand with the slug.

"I'll watch Kevin," spoke up George. "If you don't mind."

"No, I—that's not really—" ("_TROLL BOGIES, TROLL BOGIES, TROLL BOGIES_!") "Oh, all right! But behave yourself, won't you, George?"

"Who, me? C'mon, Kevin, I've got something to show you."

Angelina hesitated for a moment, watching as George led Kevin away. Then, with a shake of her thick hair, she turned around and planted her hands on her hips.

"All right, kids! Sorceress Says…line up behind me!"

A chorus of delighted shrieks and shouts filled the room as the other children scurried to line up behind Angelina. She waved her wand and a thick red ribbon streamed out of the tip, forming itself into stairs up to the ceiling.

Her wand aloft, Angelina marched onto the ribbon, and like ducklings following their mother the children followed her one by one up the satin stairs. From the top, she could see George and Kevin, hunkered down at one of the low tables, whispering together. The scowl was slowly melting from Kevin's face.

Angelina smiled.

…

…

_A/N: The boy 'Kevin' is the same boy from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, who is mentioned at the Quidditch World Cup campgrounds, where he stole his father's wand and blew up a slug. 'Samantha' is named after my friend, who was herself named after the witch from the old TV show 'Bewitched,' so it still fits :)_


	13. I really am trying

Chapter 13: I really am trying

An hour later, almost all of the children had been picked up by their haggard and overworked-looking parents. Now Angelina stood alone in the middle of the nursery, surrounded by a mess of ribbons, sparkles, flowers, hoops, balls and bells. She waved her wand once more, and with many loud pops, all the conjured remnants of "Sorceress Says" vanished one by one.

"George," she called over her shoulder, "did Kevin's dad pick him up?"

"What?"

Angelina turned around. George's head and upper torso were immersed in a large toy chest in the far corner of the room, but he quickly disengaged himself and scrambled to his feet, a toy in each hand and his wand behind his ear. "Sorry—missed what you said—"

"I said, did Kevin's dad come pick him up? Parents're supposed to check out with me."

"Really?" George's brow furrowed. "Some bloke showed up at the door while you were doing that sparkly fountain thing for Samantha—he took Kevin and disappeared pretty quick. I just assumed it was his dad—" He broke off at the look on Angelina's face.

"Are you kidding me?" Angelina gasped. "Oh my God—how many times I've told Kevin to check out with me—if that wasn't his father—"

"BOO!"

Angelina screamed and spun around—but there was nothing behind her, only an odd blur in the air—

And then something the size and weight of an eight-year-old boy crashed into Angelina's midriff. She fell to the floor with a cry as two familiar laughs rang out in the nursery.

George was at her side in a moment, his toys under one arm and his wand in his hand. With it he made a tapping motion somewhere a foot above Angelina's stomach, and the blur in the air resolved itself into a madly giggling Kevin, who hugged Angelina around the waist and then scrambled to his feet.

"Kevin!" Angelina sputtered, pushing herself upright. Kevin grinned winningly at her, then, with a glance at George, produced a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

"For you," said Kevin, his grin widening, and he winked exaggeratedly at her. Behind her, George snorted with laughter.

Angelina rounded on him. "What—"

"Disillusionment Charm," said George with an innocent shrug. "Don't leave the poor bloke hanging, Angelina. They're quite nice, those flowers."

Angelina looked from George back to Kevin. She put her hands on her hips. "I should have known not to let you two go off together. Okay then." She accepted the flowers with an expression of mock-irritation and a gleam in her eye. "You're off the hook—for just this once!"

"Off the hook?" repeated a voice. "What'd he do now?"

"Daddy!" cried Kevin. He pushed past Angelina and ran to a grey-faced and bleary-eyed wizard standing at the door.  
>"Oy!" said George . "Wait a moment, Kevin."<p>

Kevin obediently skidded to a halt and looked expectantly up at George.

Angelina stared.

George winked at her, then raised an eyebrow at Kevin. "Mind you give Angelina an easier time from now on."

Kevin made a face at him. "Why should I?"

"Ever heard of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?"

Kevin's face lit up. "Yeah!"

George grinned. "I'm the proprietor of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Me and my twin brother. And if Angelina gives me a good report about your behavior, I'll give you a discount."

Kevin's eyes were wide as saucers. Behind him, so were his father's. Quickly seizing his son's hand, he bid Angelina farewell and pulled Kevin from the daycare.

"Diagon Alley! Open Tuesday to Saturday!" George called after them.

The nursery door closed firmly in his face.

George turned and caught Angelina looking at him.

"What?"

She started as if surprised. "Nothing." She smiled. "Nothing."

George raised his eyebrows. "Okay, then."

"Anyway, what're you doing here?"

"I went to Quidditch practice today," said George, watching as Angelina began waving her wand, and the room slowly started to clean itself. "They told me you were working late. I didn't know you were doing childcare."

"Well, you never asked, did you?" said Angelina lightly.

"Nope. Never did."

Angelina laughed in spite of herself. "Yeah…I was dead set against working for the Ministry, but once I heard they'd chucked Umbridge in Azkaban, suddenly it didn't seem too bad. I don't think it's what I want to do with the rest of my life or anything, but as I haven't figured out what I do want yet, I suppose it's as good a job as any for a recent Hogwarts graduate. And the kids really like me," she added with another little smirk.

"Well you always did show a knack for organizing the younger and less mature," said George with a sycophantic nod. "Bang-up Quidditch captain."

"Knack?" Angelina repeated, raising her eyebrows. "That's funny, coming from you."

"What do you mean?" said George innocently.

"I mean, I was only your captain for two months, wasn't I?" said Angelina, the Quidditch-captain fire returning to her eyes. "And it's not as if you listened to me even then."

"Yeah," said George reminiscently. "That was a good two months. It was even easier to make you mad than before…"

"Yeah, you and Fred were great at that."

"We try our best," said George sanctimoniously, with a wry grin. But something in his eyes made Angelina look away, her cheeks suddenly flushed.

A silence fell.

"…So what're you doing here again?" said Angelina.

"Told you. I went to Quidditch practice."

"Okay, well, how'd you get from Quidditch practice to here?"

"I was looking for you."

"Yeah?" Angelina shot him a sharp look. "Come to apologize?"

George's ears turned red.

"S'pose so," he said grudgingly.

"It's okay," said Angelina quickly, her expression changing.

"No, I shouldn't've—"

"Don't worry about it, I'm sorry I—"

"What? What're you sorry about, then?"

"I don't know, I—"

"I come all the way out here after you, and now you won't even let me—"

"Oh come off it, 'all the way,' you just Apparated, it took two seconds—"

"Can I see you home?" shouted George over her.

Angelina paused. "What?"

"_May_ I see you home?" George repeated. "Since you won't let me get a word in."

"Oh, that's okay—"

"No, really. I owe you one."

"No you don't—"

"If you don't let me I'll be terribly sad."

"You—"

"You don't want that, do you, Angelina?"

Angelina narrowed her eyes at him. "…Oh—you have no shame."

George's mischievous grin was the slightest bit sad. "Almost none."

He held his arm out pointedly, and raised his eyebrows at Angelina. She hesitated, gazing at him as if intently studying his face, but finally she linked her arm around his, and together they walked through the Ministry of Magic Atrium and up to the London streets above.

…

…

…

_A/N: Angelina'll be figuring fairly prominently in the next few chapters, so please let me know what you think! And all my other characterizations, lol :)_

_Also, one more question—I'm not British, but I've been trying to imitate the British slang used in the Harry Potter books for the characters' dialogues. Could any real British people maybe tell me how I'm doing? :) That'd be much appreciated! _


	14. One year ago today

Chapter 14: A year ago today

May 2, 1999

The rest of April flew by at an alarming rate. George was now practicing with the pickup Quidditch team two and sometimes three days a week, as intramural finals were coming up and Angelina was determined to take advantage of the strangely hot and rainless April weather.

Practices were sweaty, sticky affairs, even in the cooler evenings; the air was humid and the sky mostly overcast, as if it was trying its hardest to rain, but couldn't quite manage it.

Before George knew it, it was the morning of May the second, and he was kneeling in front of the fireplace in his Diagon Alley flat, talking to his mother's head hovering amidst the green flames.

"Oh, Georgie, please come home—"

"Sorry, Mum, you know I can't, not today. Maybe tomorrow."

"But it's—"

"I _know_, Mum, but I've got to work. I'll be home this weekend, you know I will…"

"Oh—oh George—"

"I'd rather stay here, Mum. For the night."

"…All right."

"Sorry."

"No, no…I understand, I just…I miss you, dear."

"Me too, Mum."

"Give my love to Ron…"

"If I love on Ickle Ronniekins any more than I already do, I'll smother him."

"Okay…I love you, too, George," said Molly Weasley, and then with a faint _pop_ her head disappeared from the fireplace.

George rocked back on his heels and stared into the fire for a moment. Then, quite abruptly, he got to his feet and headed downstairs to open the shop.

…

_One year ago:_

_ Two loud pops and a terrible shrieking noise heralded Fred and George Weasley's arrival at Hogsmeade the night of the Battle of Hogwarts._

_ "Merlin's spotty boxers!" howled Fred, clapping his hands to his ears._

_ "Caterwauling Charm!" George hollered back._

_ "I know that—why aren't we in the Hog's Head?"_

_ "I was about to ask you the same question!"_

_ "Did you forget where it is?"_

_ "Oh, right, blame it on me, that's great—"_

_ "You—"_

_ "SHUT UP!" both twins roared at once, brandishing their wands, not at each other, but at the air around them. Instantly the shrieking and wailing died away._

_ "Well," said Fred into the sudden silence. "That solved that. Now to get to—"_

_ George wasn't listening. He punched Fred in the arm and pointed down the street. "Look—"_

_ Two Dementors had emerged at the end of the dark Hogsmeade street and were gliding up towards the twins. Behind them, two more turned the corner._

_ "Well this isn't good," said Fred._

_ "Figures…" George grunted. "The one D.A. spell we never got quite right…"_

_ A cloying coldness was already settling into their chests. George's breath caught—all at once he thought of eleven-year-old Ginny trapped in the Chamber of Secrets while her family thought her dead; he thought of the Death Eater attack at the Quidditch world cup, holding Ginny's hand and wondering where the others were; of his father, attacked by Voldemort's snake and rushed to St. Mungo's; of Ron poisoned, nearly killed, at Hogwarts— Beside him, Fred's face was ash-white beneath his freckles as he relived walking into the Burrow's living room to see George sprawled out on the couch, soaked in blood, a gaping hole in the side of his head…_

_ The twins stumbled back. Their shoulders bumped, warm in the cold night air and cloying mist. Fred and George leaned against each other, back-to-back, and both raised their wands in one motion—_

_ "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

_ An explosion of silver light rocketed out of the twins' wands and raced in opposite directions down the street. Fred's leaped onto a Dementor and seized it between its silver jaws, while on the other side, the Dementors were already running from the shining creature streaking across the ground towards them._

_ Fred and George, still back-to-back, stared at their patronuses, clear and bright in the darkness. The feeling of cold fear had quite vanished._

_ "Blimey," George whispered._

_ Fred took a step forward. "—What are they? Can you see—"_

_ "Mine's a raccoon…" said George, watching his patronus swirl around the retreating Dementors. "…And—what's yours?"_

_"A hyena, I think," said Fred, looking at the silvery wild dog snapping at the Dementors. With a low shriek, the last Dementor disappeared down a dark alley; the silver hyena turned back, almost gloatingly at the twins, and opened its mouth in a silent howl of laughter._

_ Fred and George laughed as well. "All right, so they're not identical. I can live with that."_

_ "Maybe we can get them to act like they belong to the other one," said George. "Still confuse people." As if to agree, the silver raccoon swirled up around Fred._

_ "Damn, they're cute," Fred conceded, raising a hand to George's patronus. "Too cute. What're you trying to steal from me, eh?"_

_ The silver hyena had reached the twin' sides; it reared up on its hind legs and the raccoon lowered its masked head from Fred's shoulders. The two patronus's noses brushed together before both dissipated into silver mist and then vanished from the dark street._

_ Fred and George looked at each other. Behind them Hogwarts Castle loomed beyond the village, dark and quiet. The battle had not yet begun._

_ The twins clapped each other on the shoulder._

_ "Ready, George?"_

_ "Ready, Freddie."_

_ They nodded, and set off side by side down the street in search of the Hog's Head._

…

…

…

_A/N:_

_I'm writing a lot since I'm back at college but classes haven't really started yet. The next chapter's already written, too! And it's much longer than this one, so please forgive the shortness. I just couldn't pass over May 2__nd__ without mentioning it. _

_What do you think of my patronuses for Fred and George? I saw on another fanfic that someone gave Fred the hyena, but I can't find it again, so I'm afraid I can't credit it. _


	15. Memories of laughter

Chapter 15: Memories of laughter

May 1999

When it finally rained in the second week of May, never for a moment did George consider that Quidditch practice might be canceled. The very idea would have been laughable on the Gryffindor house team under the captaincies of Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson. But when he Apparated onto the practice pitch at 7:30 that Wednesday evening, his robes already Imperviused and rain-ready, Angelina was the only other player standing on the sidelines.

She looked up at him as he approached, and brushed away the wet strands of wavy dark hair that had fallen out of her thick braid onto her damp face.

"Hey."

"Hey." George stopped in front of her and set the end of his broom down on the ground. "Where is everyone?"

"Rain scared them off, I expect."

"Pansies."

"Traitors. No reason we can't practice, though."

George raised his eyebrows. "Are you going to throw the Quaffle to yourself, then, while I smack Bludgers at you?"

"Perhaps you could play Chaser this evening, and we'll work on passing."

"I'm a Beater, Angelina. I like to beat things."

"Try to beat me, then. One-on-one. First to ten goals wins."

George looked skeptically at her, and raked a hand through his drenched hair. "Why can't I just go home?"

She put her hands on her hips.

So George heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Aye aye, Captain Johnson."

"That's the spirit, Weasley!"

…

In the absence of referees or mediwizards to mitigate the dangers of true Quidditch, they flew low to the ground, and kept the Bludgers securely locked in their cases. George played rather half-heartedly at first, keeping his distance from Angelina. After she scored three goals in a row, however, and knocked the Quaffle out of his hands to score a fourth, he became more enthusiastic. Soon both were drenched and mud-splattered.

"All right," panted Angelina after about half an hour of fierce competition. "Water break."

"Water break? Good, I'm parched," said George, holding up his hand in the rain.

Angelina had already landed and sat down on the bench, her water bottle in her hand. George took a seat next to her.

"Not thirsty?" asked Angelina, taking a long sip from her bottle.

"Didn't think I'd need a water bottle," said George. "Way I remember it, Captain Johnson saw rainy days as an excuse to practice through water breaks."

"That was Wood," said Angelina defensively, with a little laugh. "I wasn't as bad as Wood."

"You were trying to be."

"Yes, I was. Do you want some or not?" She shook her bottle under George's nose. He seized it and tipped a gulp of water into his mouth, careful not to touch the rim with his lips.

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Angelina recapped her bottle, then grabbed her foot with one hand and stretched her leg straight out in front of her. George watched.

"Rain seems to be letting up," he said.

"Hmm." Angelina was stretching her other leg now. "Shall we get back to it, then?"

"How about you give me another sip of your water first?"

She made a snorting noise but handed him the bottle, and George drank again, still keeping his lips from the rim. When he lowered his head he saw Angelina looking at him.

"What?"

She gave a small smile. "You were just thinking of him. Fred. Weren't you?"

George gave a small jump and the cap fell out of his hands into the mud. "Wh—"

"Sorry!" Angelina picked up the cap and wiped it off on her sleeve. "Just—from your expression. I could tell."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sorry—I shouldn't've said anything—"

"It's okay. You don't have to avoid saying his name, you know. Fred, Fred, Fred. See?"  
>"All right then! Just that it's a bit hard to tell with you sometimes."<p>

George had the grace to look slightly abashed. His expression quickly turned thoughtful, however. "Just thinking about Quidditch, seventh year. We gave you a rather hard time, didn't we?"

"Rather!" Angelina repeated. "Fred especially! He—"

But then her face turned slightly pink and she fell silent.

A small smirk turned the corners of George's mouth but his eyes were sad as he said, "Are you thinking what I think we're both thinking?"

"…I think so," said Angelina quietly. She looked down at her feet, then back up at George. "…It's a bit odd, to think that you already know everything about—him and me, don't you?"

"Far as I know, yes," said George with a casual shrug, his smirk broadening ever so slightly. "Wouldn't mind hearing your side of it, though."

Angelina shot him a sharp look.

George shrugged again. "Fred was known to be biased against people who didn't look identical to him."

"Ha! Everyone but you and himself, then?"

"Exactly."

Angelina bit her lip and fell silent. George watched her quietly. His face was shadowed, but she could just see the faint blue of his eyes on hers.

Finally, she said very quickly, a note of defiance to her voice, "It started with the Yule Ball sixth year. You know that."

George nodded. "I do."

She shot him a look. "Who'd you go with, by the way?"

"Some girl from Beauxbatons. I don't even remember her name."

"You arse."

"That's me."

Angelina shook her head, but she was smiling. "Oh, you….I had a great time at the ball with Fred." Beside her, George remained very still, his eyes fixed intently, almost hungrily on her face. "And the rest of the year—we didn't have Quidditch that year, remember—it was canceled for the Triwizard Tournament—we didn't even have a captain to call captains' practices—but we still practiced together fairly often, those of us who had time."

"Yup." George nodded. "I was there. You and Fred were disgusting."

Angelina laughed abruptly again, but her eyes darted to George's face before looking away again. "Yeah. He was a lot of fun."

George's mouth opened, but no sound came out. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, after a moment. "He was."

Angelina looked at him, her dark eyes bright. George raised an eyebrow at her.

"He really liked you, you know."

She took a deep breath. "Yeah. I really liked him too. I suppose—I suppose Fred was my first love."

They both fell silent, side by side on the bench, their eyes looking across the dark Quidditch pitch as if hoping another player would come flying across the field to them.

"…But…" said George finally, raising his eyes with an effort to Angelina's face.

"But what?"

"But…you broke up."

"Yeah," she said softly. She brushed her hair over her shoulder and then heaved a deep breath. "Round or before seventh year. I was Quidditch captain—It really was a lot of pressure. On top of NEWTs and everything, the whole house was expecting another Quidditch cup—I was getting owls from Oliver practically every day—and then to make it worse, on our first game—our first game!—you, Fred and Harry got banned from Quidditch."

George's face grew darker. "Umbridge," he said darkly. "And that little Malfoy git."

"I was so mad at you," said Angelina, shaking her head. "Almost half my team—banned from Quidditch for fighting on the pitch!" She glared at George. "At least you and Harry had the grace to seem the teensiest bit sorry about it."

"I wasn't sorry."

"Yes you were."

"Maybe a little bit. Only because I was afraid you were going to do an Oliver and drown yourself in the shower."

"See? But Fred wasn't at all. Refused to apologize, or even act sorry. It made me so mad!"

"He was sorry," George said quietly.

Angelina deflated quickly. "I know. I'm sure he was. But—we got in a lot of fights about that. And even before that he was a lot more interested in starting up your joke shop and making Umbridge's life miserable than he was in spending time with me. So I dunno if we were really still—together—by the time of that Gryffindor-Slytherin match, but that ended up being the end of it."

She looked up at George. "What did he say about me?"

"Oh," George shrugged, "that you're a lot of fun. And you have a great laugh. Which is true. He had a really great time at the Yule Ball with you, too. But…later—he thought you were a bit bossy."

Angelina let out a laugh that sounded like a choke. "I was captain!"

"You were always bossy, even before that. It's what makes you a great captain. Just like Oliver. Can you imagine dating Oliver Wood?"

"I—" Angelina cocked her head. "…That'd be awful," she giggled.

"Exactly," George nodded. "I love Oliver too, but he'd be a pain in the arse to date, 'specially for someone like Fred. He said…Right around the beginning of seventh year, he told me…he couldn't get you to laugh anymore."

"Oh."

George looked at her. "…Makes sense, I guess," he said. "You're both pretty loud. You and Fred. Makes sense you'd clash, right?" He caught the look in her eyes and his ear turned red. "Sorry. Just thinking out loud. You know—I knew him better than anyone—and—"

"No, it's okay."

Another silence fell. Angelina broke it more quickly this time, with a slightly defiant glare at George. "Didn't help that you two were both always showing up to practice with weird injuries from your experiments and things."

George let out a burst of laughter, then seemed surprised at himself. "Yeah. What with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Quidditch wasn't the highest priority any—" He cocked his head to the side, a faraway look in his eyes as if watching something only he could see. Angelina jumped when he burst out laughing again.

"S-sorry," George chuckled. "I was just—there was one practice where we—we hadn't gotten the Fever Fudge formula quite right yet, so we kept getting these—enormous boils—on the, you know, the part of the anatomy that has the most contact with a broomstick."

Angelina's face changed from alarm to shock, then she let out a high peal of laughter too. "I didn't know that!"

"Oh, yeah." George was still laughing. "Pretty sure nearly all of mine burst during that practice."

"Oh no!" Angelina put a hand over her mouth but she was giggling too. "I just thought you two were being gits about having to practice."

"No. Oh no. Those grimaces were a testament of our loyalty to the team."

George sighed, let out one more chuckle, then looked down at Angelina. "That's—That's the first time I've, you know, really laughed about Fred. Since he died."

They could both hear the catch in his voice. Angelina was silent, her brown eyes on his. George appeared to be holding his breath.

"Even…even happy memories hurt too, you know? It's like—" he paused, then suddenly laughed so loudly that Angelina jumped.

"Oh my God! George—what—"

"That evening—" he choked through his laughter, "We—we needed to take notes on them, you know? To figure out how to get rid of them. The boils," he added at Angelina's confused look. "So—so that evening, we're both sitting on my four-poster in the dorm room, the curtains drawn, completely naked, inspecting our—you know…." he paused, still laughing, as if waiting for someone else to complete his sentence, then finished, "our spotted dicks, if you will."

Angelina put a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. "You—"

George was clutching his sides, his head thrown back. "We were—totally serious about it too. All business. And then—then two other blokes from our year walked into the dorm…So of course we don't stop talking about our dicks—just l-louder, if anything. Comparing." George's face was so screwed up with mirth that it looked painful. "Damn…then Fred just picked up my pillow, parted the curtain, and marched across to his bed, hiding his—his boils from the other two with my pillow. Winked at them as he passed…"

Angelina touched George's shoulder. "You two…"

"Oh…blimey…their faces…oh my God…" A tear slid down George's freckled cheek.

"George?"

"They avoided us for about a week. Fred thought it was…ah—it was so funny…" He was all but writhing on the bench; another tear fell from his eye, then another. "I…c-can't breathe—"

But Angelina cut him off; she pulled his head down to her shoulder; George let out a groan that sounded almost like a yell, but she didn't let go and suddenly his laughter had turned into tears, great wracking, gasping sobs that shook her body as well as his. He was crying into her shoulder, his face buried in her neck, and she was rocking him gently back and forth as if he were a small child, tears in her eyes as well, her cheek against his hair, her arms around his back and his tightly around her waist. His sobs echoed loudly across the empty and darkening Quidditch pitch.

It was a long time before his crying became quieter. It was even longer before the tears stopped trickling onto Angelina's collar. But finally, George was all but still in her arms. She continued to rock him, more gently than before. He hiccoughed but didn't lift his head.

After another moment he stirred. Angelina hesitated, then released him, and George raised his head. His bloodshot blue eyes met hers, then dropped away.

"Sorry."

"Oh, George." She put her arms back around his neck and squeezed him. "It's okay."

His hands twitched, then came reluctantly back up to wrap around Angelina's waist. "It doesn't get better," he said hoarsely into her shoulder. "Maybe for a little while, and then when it comes back—it's just worse….S-sometimes…I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like I haven't been breathing since—"

"Hmmmm," Angelina murmured, almost crooned, her chest vibrating against his with her voice.

George hiccoughed again. "I d-don't know what to do."

Another tear rolled down Angelina's cheek. "The only thing you can do is keep going," she said quietly.

"…Yeah."

Something in his voice caused her to pull back from their embrace to look him in the eye.

George attempted a grin, a pale mockery of his former smile.

She didn't smile back. "Am I thinking what I think we're both thinking?"

He let out a flat laugh that contained no mirth. "Doesn't mean it'll happen."

But she continued to glare at him. "You said—the other day, at your birthday, you said—"

George shifted his shoulders in a light shrug. "Doesn't mean I haven't thought about it."

Angelina's breath caught in her throat. "George—"

"Don't worry about it," he said over her. "Fred died a hero. If I off myself—I'm pretty sure I'll have no shot of ever s-seeing him again, you know? And…I couldn't do that to Mum."

She let out a sigh between her teeth, her eyes fixed on his. George's eyes were downcast; his hands tightened briefly around her waist and then relaxed again.

"I can tell they fell like they've lost both of us," he said quietly. "But I—I don't know how to—" he broke off, his gaze distant. "It's like—I'm stuck inside my head, peeping out through my eyes every once in a while to check up on what my body's doing, and the rest of the time I'm running around inside my brain—looking for Fred. Like—there's a little kid in there who just doesn't understand that he's gone."

Two more tears pooled in Angelina's eyes, but George looked spent. He merely watched as the tears slid down Angelina's cheeks and slowly slid off her chin. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers.

"I don't see how it can get better," he said. "He's not coming back." He blinked, but his eyes were dry. "The thought of living fifty, sixty, seventy more years…without him…Then at least I wouldn't have to th-think anymore, r-right?"

"Don't look at it that way," said Angelina firmly, though her hand with which she squeezed his arm was trembling slightly. "Just think—tomorrow you're going to make some people very happy at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and this weekend we're going to get a drink at the Three Broomsticks—yes, we are—and then next week we'll have Quidditch practice again and you'll be late and I'll make you do laps around the pitch until your feet fall off."

"Hm." George let out a chuckle that sounded more like a hiccough. "D'like to see you try."

"I think you're forgetting who's captain of this team."

George rolled his eyes. "So bossy…"

"You bet I am." She didn't release her grip on his arm, and he made no effort to extricate himself from her, so together they sat on the Quidditch bench as the rain continued to fall. It was only their shivering, when the sun had finally set, that parted them and sent them their separate ways home.

…

…

… 

_A/N: Long chapter! Whew! Well, there you have it: my opinion on the Fred-Angelina-George love triangle that appears in so many fanfictions. I'm not of the belief that Fred and Angelina were dating up until his death. The books have no evidence that they were still seeing each other by their seventh year—there's not even any indication that they continued dating after attending the Yule Ball together. The very next Hogsmeade weekend, Harry sees Fred and George hounding Ludo Bagman in the Three Broomsticks, and Angelina appears to be nowhere in sight. Certainly Fred was not romantically committed to Angelina at Bill's wedding, considering how 'friendly' he was with the veela cousins :) I think that if Fred and Angelina did date after the Yule Ball, they probably broke up a few months afterward. I just can't see them dating up until his death._

_I'd love to hear all your feedback and opinions on this, though!_


	16. MisCommunication

Chapter 16: (Mis)Communication

_To George F. Weasley—_

_ Don't forget—Three Broomsticks this weekend! When are you free?_

—_Angelina _

…

_Angelina—_

_ Not Saturday—we've got some items of a sensitive legal status coming in that evening and I forgot Ron's at Hermione's place, as it's her mum's birthday. He's getting quite chummy with her folks, it's adorable. How does your Sunday look?_

_ —George Weasley_

…

_Dear George—_

_ Just got an owl from my cousin in Bristol. Seems like a household hex went badly wrong…? I can't read her handwriting. Don't know how bad it is yet. I'm off to see if I can sort her out. Don't get arrested please._

—_Angelina_

…

_Dear Angelina,_

_ Yikes, Charms experiments gone awry—we've all been there, right? Hope it's not too serious. Keep me posted—send me an owl before you go sending for the Committee on Experimental Charms, they have no sense of humor._

_ —George_

…

_Ha ha, George,_

_I won't ask how you know the Committee on Experimental Charms people. We'll save that story for the next drink, I suppose. Doesn't look like anything I can't sort out on my own right now, though—I just Vanished all the sugar left where her bones ought to have been—it dissolved bloody fast—and now I'm off to buy Skele-Gro. _

_Thanks,_

_ —Angelina_

…

_Try Knockturn Alley. Skele-Gro's cheap there._

—_G._

…

…

…

So it wasn't until next Tuesday evening, when George Apparated onto the Quidditch pitch ten minutes late to practice, that he next saw Angelina, sitting with three others on the bench lacing up their Quidditch gear, her back to him. The other team members were already in the air, tossing the Quaffle back and forth.

She didn't notice George until he plopped down on the bench next to her, threw an arm around her shoulder, and said "Gonna make me do those laps today?"

Angelina jumped, looked around at him as if startled, and then—to George's great astonishment—she blushed.

"Erm…What?"

"Nothing, nothing! If you don't remember it doesn't matter." George made a relieved face at the rest of the team , who all laughed.

Angelina slipped out from under George's arm and stood up. "Well, shall we get started?"

"I haven't got my stuff on yet," said George.

Angelina had already opened the ball crate. She unstrapped the Bludgers, which rocketed off into the air. One of them swerved in midair to barrel towards the three other players sitting on the bench, who hastily leaped onto their brooms and shot off to join the rest of the team.

"Nice Sloth-Grip Roll, Greg!" Angelina called as one of the other Chasers narrowly missed a Bludger to the head. "Get your stuff on quick, George, and give Monica some help with the Bludgers; I jinxed them to be extra-belligerent today."

"Right." George raised his eyebrows at Angelina, who was now tying back her clouds of poufy hair, her face still slightly pink. "How's your cousin?"

"Oh! —She's okay now. Thanks."

"No trouble with the Committee on Experimental Charms?"

Angelina laughed loudly, then looked flustered. "No, nothing like that."

George's eyebrows had almost disappeared behind the ginger fringe on his forehead. "…Right," he said slowly. "Well, I'll catch up with you lot soon as I get my gear on."

"Right," said Angelina, looking more flustered than ever, and she hopped onto her broom and took off to join the rest of the team.

…

George's expression was rather stony when he finally joined the team in the air, and he kept up a sullen silence through the rest of the practice, his attention fully occupied by the Bludgers Angelina had bewitched to be extra-aggressive.

Angelina didn't get a chance to talk to him until after practice ended, when George was struggling to jam the Bludgers back in the crate.

"So—what're you doing tonight?"

George glanced at her, then looked away. He shrugged. "Nothing. Just going back to Diagon Alley."

"Oh. I was wondering if you wanted—to get a drink, or something."

"No." The Bludger was giving him quite a bit of trouble; without looking at her he grunted, "Not if you're going to look at me like that all night, anyway."

"Wh-what?" Angelina snapped, both a quaver and a note of defiance in her voice.

George let out a roar of outrage that made her jump—the Bludger had escaped its bonds and rocketed off across the pitch.

With a loud swear George leaped onto his broom, seized his Beater's bat from the ground, and streaked after the Bludger, now boomeranging back to attack the other team members packing their gear on the sidelines.

After their Keeper narrowly avoided a concussion, the others packed up and departed rather quickly. By the time George landed on the sidelines again, the Bludger held tightly against his chest with both arms, Angelina was the only other person left.

She watched in stony silence as George stalked past her and bent down over the Quidditch balls crate. Only once he had secured the escaped Bludger did she say, in clipped tones, "Look at you like what, may I ask?"

"Look, I'm sorry about the other night," said George, still bent over the crate. "You shouldn't have had to see that. But it doesn't mean you have to start acting like I'm a Howler about to explode; my family're already experts on that—"

Angelina's jaw dropped. "Oh—George—That's not—"

"Just forget it, okay?" He picked up his bag and his broom, stood, and turned to face her.

"George! That's not what I—"

But, his eyes fixed on a point past her head, he made to walk past her. So Angelina, as he reached her side, stepped in front of him with the agility of a Chaser and seized him by the shoulders.

"George!"

The sharpness of her tone caused him to stop and meet her gaze.

Angelina glared up at him, her face set, no longer blushing in the slightest. Then she leaned upwards—he was not much taller than she was—and kissed him on the cheek.

George only gaped at her.

Then she smacked him on the head.

Now Georg e moved. "Ow!"

"You think everything's about you, don't you?" snapped Angelina.

"What—?"

"Is that why you were sulking all practice?"

" You were—"

"How could you think—"

"I've _never _seen you blush before—"

"You snuck up on me!"

"And you acted like I'm Grawp or something—"

"No I did not—"

"I am much better looking than Grawp, Angelina."

Angelina let out a burst of laughter in spite of herself, but George's expression suddenly changed to one of scrupulous concern. "Oh, I get it! Angelina," he said, mock-seriously, "are you on your monthlies?"

This time he was prepared for the blow she aimed at his head.

"Right, well," Angelina swung her Quidditch bag over her shoulder with a dignified toss of her hair. "I'm off."

"What about that drink?"

"You missed your chance," she said. "See you tomorrow! And mind you're on time!"

And with a loud crack, she vanished.

George lingered for a moment on the pitch, his smile fading. Then he, too, Apparated back home.

…

Angelina reappeared in an alley by her London apartment, her dark face once again flushed with color.

"Stupid!" she muttered, gripping her elbows with her hands, her face screwed up with pain as if she had a stomach ache. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! What in _Merlin's name_ was that…? Oh, God, I wish Alicia—"

But then Angelina clamped her mouth shut. Her teeth gritted, she adjusted the strap of her Quidditch bag, then slowly leaned her shoulder against the alley wall. In the dimness of the twilit alley, a tear sparkled in her eye.

Then, in silence, Angelina walked slowly out of the alley and up the steps to her apartment.

…

…

…

_A/N: Note about the end—remember earlier in the story it was mentioned that Alicia Spinnet died in the Battle of Hogwarts in this fanfic. Her fate was unspecified in the books, so it is possible._


	17. It's not over

Chapter 17: It's not over

Late May 1999

"Hello, George."

"Hi, Angelina."

"How was your day?"

"Pretty good. Sold a load of Skiving Snackboxes, actually."

"That so?"

"Yeah. Mostly to Hogwarts first-years. They've got exams now, remember."

"Ha! I'd love to see a first-year try to get out of McGonagall's exam because of a little nosebleed."

"Poor kids."

They didn't speak of Fred. They didn't mention George's tears or Angelina's blushes. And they never found time for that Three Broomsticks drink.

George, meanwhile, to the quiet relief of his friends and family, seemed almost returned to normal. He had started pulling a few small pranks on Ron while in their flat, some of which had turned into new Wizard Wheezes, the first additions to their merchandise since Fred's death. Pickup Quidditch practice also seemed to keep him occupied.

The weeks passed in much the same way, and so it was that a Saturday evening in mid-June found George, Lee, Ron, Harry, Hermione and Ginny together at the Leaky Cauldron.

George was delighted to find that Ron still blushed quite as readily as ever, though he looked less perturbed by George's teasing with his arm around Hermione's shoulders. George was nicer to Ginny and Harry, as Ginny was now of age and her Bat-Bogey Hex hadn't gotten any weaker. Besides, Ginny had been a bit cool to George in recent months.

But it was really too bad Angelina had declined to come with them. Lee would hardly stop talking about a cute American witch interning at the radio station with him, and George couldn't help feeling that with Angelina there it would have been a bit more bearable.

All in all, it was a lovely time. It was just past one in the morning when George finally let himself into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and climbed the stairs to his flat alone (Ron had gone to see Hermione home). He kicked off his boots, tossed his coat on the couch, brushed his teeth in the bathroom (his eyes, by habit now, firmly closed). It wasn't until he stepped into his bedroom and lit the lights with a flick of his wand that he saw—

The two beds, both unmade, only one slept in; the two desks, both messy, one dusty; the two dressers, both in disarray, the other long-since untouched—

It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Now, in June 1999, more than a year later, as George stood alone in his bedroom doorway, he realized nothing had abated, nothing had lessened—if anything, only fermented in the cellar of his heart, stronger and sharper and more bitter than it had been when he had first run into the Great Hall and seen a body that looked like his lying on the stone floor—

Suddenly, the idea that he had just talked and laughed and drank with friends was appalling, unbearable. Ron and Ginny, acting as if they hadn't lost a brother; Lee, a best friend! Harry and Hermione, as if they hadn't seen it happen! And he, George, Fred's twin—

The sound of Ron unlocking the apartment door made George jump. He darted forward into his room and closed the door behind him as Ron stumbled though the dark living room.

"George?" Ron yawned loudly. "You in?"

George said nothing. His heart was pounding so hard it seemed to be choking him. He couldn't let Ron see him like this…

" George?"

"I'm sleeping!" George roared back through the door.

"…That was bloody fast," Ron grunted.

George stayed motionless, pressed against his closed door, listening to Ron shuffling about in the flat before finally stumbling into Fred's old room and closing the door. In mere moments, the faint sound of Ron's snoring filled the quiet flat.

George slid to the ground against the door. He clutched his hair, his fingers brushing the smooth, shiny burn where his ear had been. He felt wild, like he had at Christmas, with concerned family members on all sides; and frightened, like he had when facing the boggart that took Fred's form; and he felt utterly empty, like he had that time in the bathroom, when he stood in front of the mirror and begged Fred to let him kill himself. This room, with its two sets of furniture, was far too small. His wand was cold in his hand.

And suddenly, because he was afraid of what he would do if he sat in his room for a moment longer, George bolted up, strode through the flat and down the stairs, through Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and out onto Diagon Alley.

The air was cold. He had left his jacket inside, and was wearing thin summer robes. But George wished he was colder. He started off down the street.

No one had mentioned Fred once that evening…no toasts, no commemoratives—no tears, no anger. They were all probably glad of it, thought George. Glad that he had finally forgotten his twin, that he was fun and amusing once again.

That must have been why Angelina hadn't come tonight…Finally figured he wasn't a danger to himself anymore, didn't feel she had to watch him like one more child in her day-care….didn't have to listen to him crying, reminding her of the battle, of Fred—Fred, whom she had called her 'first love…'

George broke into a run. Past Quality Quidditch Supplies, in whose windows he and Fred had ogled every time they visited Diagon Alley—Ollivander's, where they had bought their wands—The Leaky Cauldron, where they had stayed before their fifth year, had stolen Percy's badge and jinxed it to read 'Bighead Boy'—

Why was he still running? This was stupid, he knew. If he was going to do it, he should have killed himself long before this, he should have done it back at the house, while Ron was sleeping (Ron, who had seen Fred die, too; no, he couldn't do that), and if he wasn't going to do it he should just crawl back home and spend the rest of his life faking smiles and brushing his teeth with his eyes closed. Why was he still running? He could always hope for an accident, at least…maybe then—

George rounded a corner, and then with a loud _thud_ and two cries he was flat on the ground. He groaned, gasping for breath, his head reeling, missing ear throbbing with pain. Everything seemed to be weaving dizzily before his eyes but through the darkness he made out the form of a cloaked witch with thick, poofy hair also pushing herself slowly to her feet.

George's heart leapt. "_Angelina?"_

_..._

_..._

_Edit: I just got my Pottermore email! I'm in Ravenclaw! And my username is AvisKey174 :)  
><em>


	18. Did you think you were the only one?

Chapter 18: Did you think you were the only one?

"George?" wheezed Angelina. "…Ouch…"

George leapt to his feet, intending to help her up, but a sudden wave of dizziness caused him to stagger and clamp his hands over his ears.

"Woah—George, you alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He waved her off and backed up until he was leaning against the lamppost at the corner of the sidewalk. "Sometimes, when I get up too fast—think it's the missing ear—but I'm fine. You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

The winking lights were starting to recede from George's sight. He looked at her and winced. "Sorry."

"It's all right; I've had worse." She smiled at him.

George narrowed his eyes. There was something off about that smile. Angelina was still rubbing her elbow where she appeared to have fallen, and the lamppost's light threw into sharp relief the deep bags under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

"What the hell're you doing out?" snapped George abruptly.

"I fancied a walk," said Angelina with a dignified toss of her head.

"At two in the morning?"

"I—I couldn't sleep."

George stared at her. "C'mon," he said gruffly. "I'll see you home."

"No."

"Angelina, it's two in the bloody morn—"

"I said _no_!"

Angelina's chin was raised, her shoulders squared, but there was a stricken expression on her face that was hard to read. She looked almost frightened.

George frowned at her. "What's wrong with you?"

"I can't go back there," she said haltingly, as if speaking against her better judgment. "I can't go back to my apartment, and it's not safe to walk around Muggle London at night, so I thought I'd come to Diagon Alley and walk around here a bit, because it's a year tomorrow since Alicia died and I'm going to her grave tomorrow with her parents, and she used to share that apartment with me, after we graduated, and a load of her things are still in there and—ahh—"

She broke off as George took two swift steps forward and embraced her. She tried to resist, but he had pinned her arms down with his own, so with a shuddering sigh she leaned into him and let him press her face against his shoulder.

After only a moment, however, she tried to pull away. "Sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "I should—"

"No, you don't have to—"

"No, really, let me go—" She tried to extract herself from George's arms, but he tightened his grip.

"Angelina, stop it! It's _okay_."

She went still, her shoulders trembling, her face still squashed against his shoulder.

"…It's not okay that Alicia's gone," George amended haltingly. "It'll never be. But—it's okay…it's okay that you don't want to be home. 'Least I hope it is, or we've both got problems."

Angelina let out a muffled laugh that sounded much more like a sob. "…Everyone seems to think—Been a year, time enough, move on. They don't understand—"

"Yeah," said George hoarsely. He pressed his cheek closer into Angelina's hair. "I know."

"…Hey, George?"

"Eh?"

"I can't really breathe."

"Oh!" George released her. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

They were only half a block from the Quidditch pitch south of Diagon Alley where their team practiced, so they sat down on a bench at the side of the field. His arm was along the back of the bench behind her. Angelina's posture was ramrod-straight, but silent tears were slipping down her cheeks. Finally she spoke.

"I was going to ask Katie if she wanted any of it."

"Any of what?"

"Alicia's things. Katie's been living at home the past few years—she's Muggle-born, you know, was laying low at her parents' house during the war, living like a Muggle, but now she's got a job with the Department of Magical Games and Sports so she's moving to London."

"Nice."

"Yeah." Angelina sighed. "So I was going to ask her if she wants Alicia's self-stirring cauldron or liquid-fire candles or things like that."

"Good of you."

Angelina let out a despondent snort.

"No, really," said George. "That's…I reckon Alicia'd be glad to help Katie out."

"Yeah, suppose so," Angelina sighed. "Suppose it's better than her things just sitting there, anyway." She twisted her hands together, her eyes on the ground. "…I've been trying to hold it together," she said dully. "There are a lot of people depending on me—"

"You've been doing a hell of a job, Captain Johnson. Really."

"Until now." She sniffed. "…This is embarrassing."

"I can't believe you just said that. After I just blubbed my eyes out on you a few weeks ago."

"Oh." She chuckled. "Right."

"I can't believe you said that."

"I'm sorry! What are you doing out and about, anyway? You never said."

George attempted a cheeky grin that faded quickly. "Same as you, probably," he muttered.

They looked knowingly at each other. Then, without a word, Angelina put her arms around George's neck. He embraced her tightly back, and for a long moment neither spoke.

Despite the chill summer night air, his nose felt warm buried in her thick hair. It smelled sweet and musky, like something he thought he recognized from Potions class at Hogwarts (the twins had reckoned at least one of them should take N.E.W.T.-level Potions for the joke shop, so after losing a very heated game of Exploding Snap, George had been forced to pass the Potions O.W.L.).

He looked down at Angelina's head on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, the imprint of tear tracks glimmering on her cheeks in the light of the streetlamp, the bags under her eyes as dark as ever, but even now, George thought, there was something dignified about her, about the way she held herself. George's lips cracked in a small smile. "Captain Johnson."

"Hm?"

His smile broadened as he raised a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. "You're so—"

And then with a sudden sharp intake of breath George jerked free of her and leaped to his feet.

"You should get home," he said brusquely.

Angelina reeled back. "What?"

"I—we both should be getting home. You feeling up to Apparating on your own?"

She drew herself up to her full height. "Yes, but—what is it—"

"It's late—You should go home—"

"'Late?'"

"Yeah, it's bloody late and we shouldn't be out like this—"

"Merlin's pants, if only Filch could hear you say that—George Weasley says '_it's late'_—he'd think he'd gone stark raving mad—"

"This is different—"

"What are you talking about?"

"There are Filch's rules, and then there's _being out with your dead brother's ex-girlfriend_!"

Angelina gaped at him. Her face turned grey.

George's face and ear were flaming red. "Look, I—"

"I don't—"

"Sorry if you weren't—thinking that—but—"

"What if I was?" said Angelina, very quietly, but with a little lift of her chin.

George stared.

"Look, I was trying to be rational about this. I miss Fred—I really do. And I miss the old you. But…lately..."

George's face was constricted. He half-glanced over his shoulder, as if hoping to find someone to back him up, then flinched and looked at Angelina again. "You said—you called Fred your first love—"

"Oh, yes, he was—is—but— You said yourself Fred and I wouldn't've worked out," cried Angelina, then she blanched. "Oh my God. I can't believe we're—that I said that—I'm sorry—" She took a step back, her lips trembling but her head raised. " Maybe you're right. I'm being stupid. I'm so sorry."

"Wait—"

But Ron's voice suddenly cut in over George's protest. "Bloody hell! There you are, George!"

"Ron! What're you—"

"I heard you leave! Let me tell the others you're not—_Expecto patronum!"_

A blaze of light suddenly filled the street as Ron waved his wand over his shoulder and a silver terrier burst out of the tip and soared off into the night.

"What're you doing here, Ron?"

"What—I thought—You left, and Hermione said I should keep an eye on you—"

"_What?_ Wait—Angelina, wait—"

Angelina shook her head. "Bye, Ron, George." And with a twirl of her cloak and a loud crack she vanished from the street.

Ron looked from the place she had been to George. He looked quite bewildered.

…

…

…

_A/N: People who have a problem with the George/Angelina relationship often say that "it's wrong to date your dead ex-boyfriend's twin brother." But shouldn't it then be equally wrong to date your dead twin brother's ex-girlfriend? Why is Angelina always 'blamed' for the relationship and George gets off scot-free? This is not fair, people! So here I've got both Angelina and George squirming with the awkwardness :)_

_Note on the courses: The books say that Fred and George got three O.W.L.'s each. Fred and George mention taking DADA in their seventh year, with Moody, and they probably took Charms, too, because that seems like the most important thing for their joke shop. So for this story I've imagined that Fred passed Transfiguration and poor George was forced to pass Potions._


	19. Need to talk to you

Chapter 19: Need to talk to you

Early July 1999

A few weeks later the Weasley family plus Harry and Hermione were gathered as usual at the Burrow for Sunday. They arrived late Saturday night, after Ron and George had closed up the shop; at Sunday brunch they had cooed over Bill and Fleur's baby daughter Victoire; after brunch they either helped Mrs. Weasley with the cleaning or Mr. Weasley with hiding his Muggle objects from his wife; and in the afternoon they played Quidditch in the orchard.

Now it was early evening, and most of the family had retreated to the garden to await another of Molly Weasley's magnificent Sunday suppers. Only George was alone, sitting far out in the field behind the house, next to Fred's grave. He had his knees drawn up to his chest and was dully reading and rereading the words "Fred Gideon Weasley" inscribed upon the tombstone.

"There you are, George."

He turned around. Molly Weasley had come up behind him without his noticing.

"Hi, Mum."

"Mind if I sit here a bit?"

"No, no, sure…"

He scootched over, and Molly settled herself on the grass next to George. She put an arm around his shoulders.

A lump rose in George's throat. "Did—did you put those flowers here?"

"Not those," said Molly softly. "Ginny did those."

"Oh….Mum?"

"Yes, Georgie?"

"…Never mind."

She looked at him. "Is it about Fred?"

"…Sort of."

Molly smiled sadly. "Was it a secret between you two?"

"No. More like…something…he should be here for. I need to talk to him."

"Well…" His mother's arm tightened around his shoulders. "I think you and I knew him the best, didn't we?"

George nodded, his face flaming red.

"Well, then, what better time to ask him then now, when he's here in body, spirit, and both our hearts?"

George swallowed.

…

…

The extended Weasley family had a late dinner that evening, long after the sun had already set. They would have eaten earlier, but Charlie and Ron, inspired by that enterprising combination of hunger and overconfidence, had tried to cook the chicken themselves, and somehow nearly burned down the entire garden.

"Well, at least we won't have to de-gnome this week," Ginny said wryly, after Molly had finished yelling herself hoarse at them and finally set about to preparing dinner herself.

Now the family sat grouped around two tables in the singed but intact garden. Molly was pressing third and fourth helpings on them all.

"More potatoes, Ginny? I didn't like the sound of that Holyhead Harpies diet they want you to go on."

"I'll be fine, Mum."

"Well you'll need all your strength for your first practice tomorrow. Hand me your plate. You too, Harry, have some more. First day of Auror training tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Harry doesn't need an excuse to eat more," Ginny laughed as Harry quite willingly surrendered his cleaned plate to Mrs. Weasley.

George looked up from his fourth serving of mashed potatoes, first at Harry, then Ron. "Oh, right, that reminds me. Ron, you're fired."

Ron, who had suddenly been looking rather forlorn, choked on his shepherd's pie.

"What?" gasped Hermione.

"He's fired," George repeated calmly. "You're fired, Ron."

Hermione looked outraged, but Ron and Harry exchanged quick glances.

"D'you think I could still—" said Ron.

"Don't see why not," grinned Harry. "Asked you specifically, didn't they?"

"—_Wicked_—"

"George!" cried Hermione. "How can you just—"

"Will you be able to manage?" Ron asked George over her.

George nodded, his mouth full of mashed potato. "D'you know how many job applications I've turned down in the last month alone?"

A grin broke out on Ron's face. "Thanks, George."

Sudden realization broke out on Hermione's face. "Oh—you're going to Auror training, then?"

The boys and Ginny all burst out laughing. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, however, did not.

"Auror training, Ron?" said Mr. Weasley seriously.

"Yeah, Dad." Ron looked his father in the eye. "They asked me ages ago. And I want to do it."

"Oh, Ronnie," Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"He's of age, Molly," said Mr. Weasley heavily.

"I hate it when you say that," Mrs. Weasley growled.

Mr. Weasley smiled wearily at his youngest son. "Even if we can't say we're happy with this career choice, Ron—we're very proud of you."

Ron flushed as his mother gave him a very watery smile and Ginny reached over Harry to pound him on the back.

"What will you do, Ron, stay in Diagon Alley or commute from the Burrow?" asked Percy.

"You could stay with me, Ron, at Grimmauld Place," said Harry.

"He'd be glad of the company, wouldn't you, Harry?" said Ginny.

"Yeah—that'd be cool. If that's okay with George…"

"Didn't I say you're fired?"

"Wicked!"

Molly abruptly rose at the head of the table. "Oh my goodness, my children are all grown up. Come on, time to do the dishes."

"Mum, Ginny's been of age for almost a year," said Charlie amusedly. At the glare Molly shot him he quickly stood up and started gathering up dishes.

"Oh, they're all moving out," sniffed Molly. "Percy, dear, why don't you move back home? It's been so nice having you here the past year—"

"Oh please!" Ginny snorted. She rolled her eyes at the others. "She's already talking about making my room into a guest room. Won't let me bring my own furniture to the Holyhead dorms!"

"I said get your dishes!"

George began shoveling mashed potato and cranberry sauce into his mouth as the rest of the family rose. It was now quite dark in the garden; only the charmed candles hovering over the tables illuminated their way to the kitchen door.

Most of the others had already gone inside by the time George had cleaned his plate and stood as well. "Hey—Ginny!" he called just as she was about to slip inside.

She turned around to let Ron and Harry enter the kitchen before her. "Yes?"It was the first time George and Ginny had been alone together since Fred's death, and it didn't look like she was in any hurry to prolong the moment.

"I've, ah—I've still got all Fred's furniture," said George. "You know, from our place in Diagon Alley. You'll have to furnish your own room with the Harpies, right? D'you want his bed and dresser and things?"

Ginny looked surprised. Slowly, a smile spread across her face. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"I'll help you move it next Sunday, that all right?"

"Yeah."

She beamed at George, who grinned back. "Send me a Holyhead Harpies toilet seat, all right?"

Ginny let out a peal of laughter. "I still have the Hogwarts one you two sent me in your third year, you know. Hidden in a loose board under my bed."

"You better. You know how hard it was sneaking that through the Owlery? Much less past Mum?"

"I can imagine. Well, I'll get you one."

"Brilliant." He started past her into the house, but Ginny cut him off and hugged him. "Woah! Mind the dishes!"

"Thanks, George," said Ginny over him.

He put an arm around her shoulders, his dishes still carefully balanced in the other. "Thanks to you too, Ginny."

She pulled back and smiled up at him.

"I've missed you, George."

…

…

When the first pinks and golds of sunset had just begun to tinge the blue summer sky over the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, still George and Molly Weasley were sitting together by Fred's flower-strewn grave, his head on his mother's shoulder. She was gently smoothing his hair from his forehead. His eyes were closed.

"…I think you know, dear," Molly was saying. "And if you don't, you'll figure it out."

George swallowed. "I've just—I just have this feeling Fred's laughing his head off right now."

Molly laughed, but a flow of tears spilled from her eyes. "Oh dear…That does sound like Fred." She wrapped her other arm around George's shoulders and kissed his forehead.

"I love you, George."

"Love you too, Mum."

"And Fred loves you."

"Yeah."

"And a load of other people love you, too."

George swallowed.

They sat in silence again, Molly still stroking her fifth son's hair.

Presently, George spoke. "…Hey, Mum?"

"Yes, dear?"

"When's dinner?"

Molly let out a surprised laugh. "I was just about to start making it—" she caught sight of the mischievous grin on George's face and swatted him on the head. "You ungrateful child! All of you! You move out of my house and still expect me to feed you—"

"But Mum, you're such a fabulous cook," said George with what he evidently considered to be a jaunty, winning smile. "Besides, if you don't cook, Charlie and Ron'll have a go and they'll end up burning the whole house down."

"Well! I'm off, then. Want to come help me?"

"Actually, I'd like to stay out here a bit more if that's okay."

Molly's expression softened. "Of course it is, George." She got to her feet. "Supper should be ready in about an hour, then. Less, if Charlie doesn't try to help me."

"Right. …Thanks, Mum."

"You're not getting off supper duty next time, though."

"Right."

Molly walked back to the house, leaving alone once again George by the grave. This time, though, there was a different expression on his face.


	20. I have a question for you

Chapter 20: I have a question for you

July 1999

Angelina lived in a flat in a part of London that was known among Muggles for being more than a bit dodgy, and among wizarding kind as a neighborhood for young professionals, much preferred because of its cheap rates and proximity to both Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic.

His hands in the pockets of his Muggle-looking jacket (which read 'Florean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlor' on the back) George stepped into the lobby of one of the apartment buildings. He rode the lift—which rattled alarmingly and smelled a bit like pumpkin juice—up to the fourth floor and set out down a corridor that any Muggle would find quite interesting.

There was no mistaking Angelina's door: a Gryffindor Quidditch Team banner hung above the number 425, and the Weird Sisters' latest single could be heard from behind it. George was sure the golden lion on it glanced at him as he approached, then with a rather sulky look fell still again. Angelina had probably charmed it to behave like a Muggle banner.

He knocked on the door, feeling the lion's cloth-of-gold eyes on him.

"Just a mo!" Angelina called through the door.

George waited, listening to the sound of footsteps and then the radio being switched off. His good ear was burning and he was thinking about all of the times he and Fred had mocked Ron about his red ears when the door finally opened.

Angelina started when she saw him.

"Oh—I thought you'd be Leanne—"

"Nope," said George . "I'm taller."

Angelina stared.

"Right." George leaned against the doorway and withdrew a hand from his jacket. "I brought you something. Well, two somethings."

The two somethings were boxes of chocolates. He pressed them into Angelina's hands before she could protest.

She read the labels on the boxes, then looked up at him. "My favorite."  
>"I know. Try one. From the top box, please."<p>

"Why?"

"Well, I only spent seven years with you at Hogwarts, in the same dorm, on the same Quidditch team—well, six and a half years, I guess. I left school a bit early. Anyway, it didn't take more than a few weekends in Hogsmeade to figure out your favorite candy—"

"No, no, I mean—why from the top box?"

"Oh—because I've added a little something to them. Eat from the top box now, and the bottom one before Quidditch matches."

She looked really suspicious now. George grinned.

"Okay, the candy in the bottom box will make your voice louder and stronger for a bit—y'know, the better to call plays with, and everything."

"And the top?"

"The candy in the top box will make you unable to speak louder than an inside voice—Hey!" He ducked as she struck him on the head with the boxes. "I had to try!"

"Try what, may I ask?"

"To get a quiet evening out with you."

"Oh."

"Yeah." George put his hands back in his jacket pockets and leaned against the doorframe. "So—is now good?"

"Ah, sure—Let me just get my cloak."

"Righto. Have you had supper yet?"

…

They spent a while bickering over which of the few Wizarding restaurants and bars hidden in and around the Ministry of Magic building to go to before finally settling on sandwiches from a Muggle sub shop obliviously parked not two blocks from the Ministry visitors' entrance.

"Food's good," said George, examining his fried fish sandwich as they walked. "I dunno about this 'cola' stuff, though. Got nothing on butterbeer."

"Shh!" Angelina hushed. "We're already getting enough odd looks."

"Shouldn't have worn that cloak, then, eh?"

"It's not a cloak, it's a poncho, Muggles wear them, and if we're talking about clothes, look at your jacket—"

"Muggles wear jackets! And they have ice cream parlors. And I'm sure they have jackets with the names of ice cream parlors written on them, too."

"Yeah, but said jackets' logos don't change color every few minutes!"

"Oh!" George looked down at the front pocket of his jacket, where, sure enough, the ice cream cone in the "Florean Fortescue's" logo had changed from pistachio to chocolate and seemed halfway toward black raspberry.

He shrugged. "No one noticed, I'm sure." Angelina was too busy coolly ignoring a pair of staring middle-aged Muggle women to retort. George raised his eyebrows at them, his mouth full of sandwich, then swallowed and nudged Angelina down a side alley. "Well, let's head to Diagon Alley anyway. I don't think the Muggles are ready for Weasleys' Wee-Baby Whizbangs just yet."

"Weasleys' what?"

"I'll show you. Ready to Apparate?"

"All right, give me a moment, let me swallow."

They clasped hands and slipped out of sight behind a fire escape in the alley, and the Muggles in the street beyond didn't even hear the echoing _crack_ as they Disapparated.

…

George was doubled up when they reappeared next to the Quidditch pitch south of Diagon Alley.

"Woah!" he groaned. "My stomach—"

"I guess cola and Apparition weren't meant to mix," smirked Angelina, then shrieked as George belched green and purple sparks.

"What—George—yahh!" she cried as George put his hands to his mouth and another sparkly belch exploded from his mouth.

"Wee-Baby Whizbangs!" said George gleefully. He cleared his throat and held out his hand. "I told you. Look!"

Half a dozen brightly colored firecrackers lay on his palm, all smaller than a thumbnail.

"One twenty-third the size of your regular Whizbang, with twice as much firepower for its size. And, they're perfectly harmless." He tapped the firecrackers with his wand; they fizzed and sputtered on his palm before blasting into the air to explode over their heads.

George smirked at her through the shower of red and gold sparks falling around their heads. "Pretty nice, huh?"

Angelina stared. "And the belching?"

"That's a common side-effect of Apparition immediately after consuming Muggle soft drinks. Fred and I discovered it years ago." Then with a last grin flashed in Angelina's direction, he ambled onto the Quidditch pitch, pulling more Wee-Baby Whizbangs out of his pocket. Reluctantly, Angelina moved to stand next to him as he tapped the firecrackers with his wand. They rocketed off his hand and exploded into more red and gold sparkles.

"Nice, huh?"

Angelina cast him an appraising look. "They're all right."

"Just all right?"

"Well, somehow I think you brought me out here to do more than show off your Whiz-Babies.

George let out an exaggerated sigh and launched the rest of the firecrackers into the air. They crackled and fizzed around his and Angelina's heads, but she kept her eyes on George's face.

"Right then," said George, his blue eyes bright and mischievous. "I have a question for you, Angelina."

She looked warily at him. "Go on, then."

He nudged her with his shoulder.

"You miss Fred, right? Well, what's it like hanging about with someone who looks exactly like him? Is it nice?"

…

…

…

_To be continued! Sorry for the obnoxious cliffhanger—this bit just ended up being longer than I thought so I split it in half._


	21. What I see in you

Chapter 21: What I see in you

For a moment, Angelina was perfectly still, her back straight, her dark eyes fixed on George's laughing blue ones. Slowly, she raised her chin.

"I can't believe it," she said quietly.

"Ange—"

"Is that what you think, George? That I—that I like you because I liked Fred? That when I—You are not Fred. It's _George _who I've been playing Quidditch with, and getting drinks with, and crying with, and—and everything I said, and feel, it's for _you,_ George Fabian Weasley, and if you can't believe that, well—"

"I believe you," George said quietly.

She fell silent as abruptly as if he had cut her off. For a moment they stared at each other. Angelina was shaking. George looked pale in the evening light.

"I believe you," he said again, then smiled feebly. "Just wanted to hear you say it." He pretended to quail from the furious expression on Angelina's face. "…Suppose I should be apologizing."

"Yeah?" said Angelina scathingly. "Why's that?"  
>"Well, you have that 'you're in trouble' look, you looked like McGonagall—"<p>

"So you don't know what you're apologizing for?"

"No, I do—"

"You complete _arse_."

"I'm sorry. Really. I just wanted to see—"

"To test me?"

"Well, yeah. And I thought it might be funny to see your face."

"Oh really? And was it funny?"

"Well, _I_ didn't think so, but I'm pretty sure Fred's getting a good laugh right now."

The anger fled from Angelina's face. "Oh."

George's ear had turned red again. "Well, I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't've—"

"No—no, it's—I mean, I'm sorry—"

"Well, good, looks like everyone's sorry."

"Oh, shut up, George!"

"Okay," said George, and promptly shut his mouth.

Angelina clenched her fists by her sides. "It's true that after Fred died I avoided you," she said in a soft voice, "because I was afraid of seeing him. And, you know, Alicia was...was dying. Oh…" She rubbed a trembling hand over her eyes. "It was Lee who tried to get me to see you. Said we both needed friends, but—I was already seeing Alicia's stuff every time I went home—I was scared of seeing Fred if I saw you, too."

"Understandable," said George, rather hoarsely.

Angelina looked at him.

"I've, ah—I've been avoiding mirrors for the same reason."

"Oh, George."

"It sounds silly."

"No—no it doesn't. But listen, George, it was at New Years' this year that I realized I could never mistake you for Fred. "

"New Years'? You mean when I got piss-drunk and made a prat of myself and you and Lee had to take me home?"

"Yeah."

"Great."

"No, no, it's—well, yes, you were a bit drunk, but you were talking about the difference between you and Fred, remember, and—that's when it really hit me, I guess, that Fred was g-gone. There was just you, George. Just you. And you were—That night you were really angry at Fred—and at yourself, yeah? And I was glad to see it—because it meant—I wasn't the only one. That you were as much of a wreck as I was pretending not to be. So—thanks for being so honest, George."

George grunted. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, yet his eyes were fixed on Angelina. "Should be me thanking you," he muttered. "For being so—tough."

Angelina let out a laugh that sounded more like a long-repressed sob. "Tough?"

"Putting up with me."

"_Putting up—_Aren't you listening, George?" Her hands balled into fists. "I said I—that I really care about you, George. _You_."

There was an odd, stunned expression on George's face. Then one corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, and he stepped forward to embrace Angelina.

At first she was stiff in his arms. He could feel her trembling, and he hoped she would understand what he was trying to say with the tightness of his arms around her back.

Angelina exhaled deeply, and her arms came up around George's back as well. "Look, George," she said, and suddenly her voice had lost its edge. "I know you can't replace Fred. And I know I can't for you, either."

"And I'd prefer it if you didn't try," George agreed, "or this would be pretty messed up."

Angelina didn't laugh. "And I know that Fred will always be a part of our relationship. Just like the rest of your family will be, and my family too. That doesn't change the fact that…" she squared her shoulders. "That it's you, George."

George swallowed. Then he pulled back , his arms still around her shoulders, to look her in her eyes. "Right, then, how about this: I'll be George, and Fred'll be Fred, wherever he is, and you be you, Angelina—" he grinned— "and we'll see how that works out?"

A slow smile spread across Angelina's face. "Okay."

He grinned back, and then they embraced again, her curly head tucked beneath his chin. Both were trembling slightly in the cooler evening air. And then—

"George?"  
>"Hm?"<p>

"Did you just belch again?"

"Er—that was my heart pounding?"

"You just belched into my hair, didn't you?"

"Angelina, it's a common side effect of consuming Muggle cola immediately before Apparition—"

She sighed and leaned into his shoulder. "Shut up."

George looked down at her. Angelina's eyes were closed, her strong chin digging into his shoulder, her lips curved in a faint smile. George grinned, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Aye aye, Captain Johnson."

…

…

…

_Hee hee—Angelina's like Molly—you have to cut her off before she gets in her stride, as George knows quite well._

_The new years' outing to which they're referring is earlier in this fic, chapters 8 and 9. _

_And Angelina used 'who' where she should have used 'whom.' But she was upset, so I guess it's excusable. She isn't a Ravenclaw, after all :)_

_I've got one more chapter and an epilogue for you, and then I think I'll finally have closure on the Weasley twins. I hope you all will too. Let me know what you think!_


	22. Why he never got over it

Chapter 22: Why he never got over it

April 1, 2001—less than two years later

The sun was just rising over the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, and George Weasley sat with his knees drawn up to his chest next to his brother's tombstone. Behind the twins, the sky was a pale bluish-grey in anticipation of the day.

George had kept a silent watch over the tomb all night, hardly moving. Now, however, as the first sunbeam touched Fred's headstone, he spoke up as if resuming an intense conversation:

"Look, this whole time I've been trying to figure out a way to talk to you, just talk, one more time. I looked for you everywhere. Knew you weren't the type to be a ghost—we talked about that; both of us agreed, no way, dead is dead—but I kept thinking…" George shook his head. "Maybe one day the reflection in the mirror would start talking to me, or I'd see you in my sleep, or hear your voice…Some days that was all that kept me going—just the off chance I might hear your voice from somewhere, even one word.

"But it didn't—never—well, you know. Dunno if you're being a git or you're not allowed to talk to me or whatever the rules are over there. Though if I recall correctly rules were never high on your List of Favorite Things. So…did you just not want to talk?"

George hung his head. "It's okay. I know you did. You do. And…I knew you were there. There were some moments—where I knew. I knew. Like that time in the bathroom. In front of the mirror. Where I almost, y'know, offed myself. I'm sorry about that. But…thanks. For stopping me.

"All right, Fred, if you're not going to talk back to me, I'm just going to keep talking. Just wanted to let you know that I'm going to ask Angelina to marry me. You're okay with that, right? Yeah, I reckon you are. I think, even if you were still alive, I'd've ended up with Angelina. Well, who knows, right? That's not how it turned out, is it? I do love her though, Fred. And she loves me too."

A breeze began to stir the long grasses around the Burrow. George tipped his head back and let it ruffle his hair.

"Does that mean you approve?"

George's eyes fell down to the tombstone beside him. He reached out a hand and traced the letters with his fingers: Fred Gideon Weasley.

"Guess we didn't have to talk, sometimes, did we? To know what we were trying to say. We just knew. Well, I know what you're trying to say now, Fred. Least I think I do. You're—I think you're telling me…to stop mourning you…" a tear slid down George's cheek but he brushed it away impatiently. "Stop mourning you—and go do something more interesting. You're getting bored watching me. Well, bored is what you'd say to me. You really mean worried. No, you mean bored, too. I'm sure you're causing havoc, wherever you are, having a great time—and they're lucky to have you, Freddie—but I think you'd prefer it if I was making things a little bit more exciting down here for you, too."

George sighed. "Sorry about that. Though I doubt you'd have done much different, you know. If it was me.

"So…I'm going to marry Angelina. If she says yes, of course. I think she will. God, I hope she does. But anyway…then in a few more years I might have kids! Can you imagine that? And loads more will happen…Loads and loads….I'll have to make fun of Ron and Ginny all by myself...and then—years and years from now, probably, because I think we've had our share of Dark Wizards for a few decades and I'm not about to off myself anymore—but years and years from now—I'll see you again. Not just…feel you. Be with you. Right? Damn…I'll be an old man and you'll still be twenty…unless that's not how age works over there. Eh, you'll find some way to mock me about it either way.

"…I can't say I 'm not looking forward to that, Fred, because I am. I still miss you. Loads. But—but I don't want to die."

The wind picked up again, stronger and cooler than before, light on George's damp face and in his tousled hair.

"I'll take that as approval, Freddie. You know I'm not—betraying you. This is what you want, right? You want me to live. So—it's not good-bye, Fred. But I won't be, you know, crying anymore. After this. Not too much, anyway. Can't promise anything." He dragged a hand over his eyes but he was grinning as he tilted his head back to look at the rising sun, its rays bathing the Burrow and the field around the twins in golden light.

Then, on a whim, George took out his wand. He looked over at Fred's tombstone, then closed his eyes and raised the wand.

"_Expecto patronum!"_

The furry silver beast that burst from his wand looked almost golden in the sun as it soared across the field, its paws barely disturbing the grass below, and then turned to look back at the twins.

One of the hyena's ears was missing, and around its eyes was a masklike marking, almost like that of a raccoon. It opened its mouth, and though George heard no sound, it seemed to him that the hyena was laughing.

He smiled at it. "Let's go on together, Fred."

…

…

_I'm so glad to finally be able to post this part—it's one of the first bits I wrote, and everything else was just leading up to this moment. In fact, I wrote this at work over the summer, and then had to try hard to hide my tears from my coworkers! I still tear up a bit when I reread this. 'Talking to the grave' scenes always kill me. That's why I can't watch _Forrest Gump_…Anyway, got one more chapter!_


	23. Epilogue

Epilogue: Love never lessens, only grows

May 2004

"Not much longer now, duckie," chirped the St. Mungo's Healer. "This baby really wants to be born!"

Angelina Johnson-Weasley only screamed in reply.

George, crouched by the bed, his hand clasped in Angelina's tight grip, looked haggardly from his wife to the Healer. "Yeah—what she said."

"Are you sure you don't want something to numb the pain, dear? We have a number of very safe potions—"

"No!" Angelina panted. "No—I'll be okay—"

"Er…" George raised his free hand and pointed to his other, which was turning purple in Angelina's fist. "Then could _I _have—"

"_George!_"

"Sorry, Ange."

"Almost there, Mrs. Weasley, now _push!_"

Angelina let out another ragged cry. George's eyes were closed; he was thinking about how much he loved his wife, and how much he loved his own mother, who had gone through this seven times (the idea seemed unfathomable) , and the fifth time only seven minutes after the fourth—

"And he's out!" said the Healer.

George opened his eyes. Angelina lay panting and sweaty beside him, and at the foot of the bed the Healer was wrapping something small in a thick woolen blanket. Then, beaming, she walked around the bed and placed the bundle in Angelna's arms.

"It's a boy," Angelina whispered.

George dropped to his knees by Angelina's bed and peered at the baby in her arms. He was tiny and bald, his dark skin a few shades lighter than Angelina's. A smattering of freckles covered his scrunched-up face. George extended a trembling finger towards his son, who seized it in his little fist and let out a howl.

George and Angelina both laughed, but only briefly; Angelina closed her eyes and nestled the baby closer to her breast with a sigh, and George quickly fell to staring at the baby again. He pressed himself closer to the bed, put his arms around Angelina's shoulders and the baby all at once, and lowered his head to peer directly into his son's face.

"…Ange?"

"Hmmm?" said Angelina, one arm around the baby, her other hand in George's hair.

"…Can—can we name him Fred?"

Angelina opened her eyes. George's face was flushed, and his blue eyes were shiny and damp as he looked almost nervously up at her.

She smiled. "I think that's a perfect name."

George exhaled and dropped his head to Angelina's stomach, his nose brushing baby Fred's cheek. "Thanks."

"I love you, George."

"WHERE IS HE?" came a shriek from the hall outside. Molly Weasley burst into the hospital room, trailed closely by Fleur and an apologetic-looking Arthur. "Where's my newest grandson?"

"Right here, Molly mum," said Angelina, and then George was nearly knocked over as Molly sat down on the bed next to them and clasped her hands together.

"Oh dear…he's beautiful. I won't ask to hold him yet, don't worry—but it's my turn next!"

"After me, you mean," grumbled George. Molly didn't seem to hear him.

Angelina smiled tiredly. "George, tell her what his name is."

George's ear turned red, but he cocked an eyebrow at his mother. "His name is Fred. Fred Weasley—the second, I guess."

"Oh!" Molly Weasley clasped her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Georgie—Angelina—that's—"

"It's perfect," said Arthur, his hand on Molly's shoulder.

Molly nodded tearfully. "I love it."

"And 'ze middle name?" asked Fleur, smiling radiantly at them all.

Angelina's eyes snapped open. "Well, that's already been decided, hasn't it, George?" she said with a glare. "George got a bit too _celebratory_ at the baby shower last month, and in a fit of drunken male bonding he promised Lee Jordan we'd give the baby a middle name after him."

"Fred Lee Weasley?" Fleur wrinkled her nose. "'Zat doesn't, euh, roll off ze tongue, as you say."

"No, it doesn't," said Angelina firmly. But the jaunty, half-apologetic grin George turned on her forced a reluctant smile onto her face.

"Can we come in?" came a voice from the doorway. Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny (with James in Harry's arms), Percy and his (pregnant) wife Audrey, plus Angelina's parents, her cousin from Bristol, and Katie Bell were all crowded in the doorway. Several more heads, half of them ginger, could be seen behind them, and from the back came a familiar shrill voice: "Merlin's beard, you don't mean to say it hasn't popped out yet?"

"Auntie Muriel's getting cranky," grinned Ginny.

The St. Mungo's healer was looking panicky now. "I'm sorry—this many visitors are not allowed—"

"Well send them away, they can't come in yet!" said Molly. "Poor Angelina's exhausted, it's far too soon for visitors—here, dear, let me help you—" she added, holding out her hands for the squirming Fred in Angelina's arms.

"Oy, Mum! I said it was me next!"

"Sit down, George—"

"Really, I'm sorry but you're all going to have to leave—"

"Go show the rest of the family out, George."

"_Mum!_"

…

That night, after the rest of the Weasley family had come and gone and George had finally wrested his son from Molly's arms, he and Angelina lay curled up together on the hospital bed, baby Fred snoozing peacefully in a crib beside them. Their St. Mungo's Healer had tried to send George home for the night—and had thereafter left the hospital under the belief that she was a rather tipsy house-elf. Angelina didn't need to know about that yet, thought George, as he tightened his arm around her waist.

In the crib beside them, baby Fred stirred but did not wake. George watched him over Angelina's shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips.

"…Can't say it wouldn't be better if your uncle was still here." He felt a tear sliding down his cheeks, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so widely. "But…seems like we're doing quite well, aren't we?"

Baby Fred yawned loudly. George stifled a laugh against Angelina's shoulder. His eyes still on his son, he lowered his head to plant a kiss on Angelina's brow, and hugged her tighter still.

"Yeah…quite well indeed."

…

…

…

_The end! Whew. It's not like the internet needs YET ANOTHER 'Fred Weasley II birth scene' but I just couldn't resist. And I just don't like the way "Fred Lee Weasley" sounds, so I imagine they named him "Fred Jordan Weasley." And then their daughter would be named "Roxanne Alicia Weasley." In my head, at least :)_

_Well, this is my take on George Weasley after Fred's death. I hate it when people say that George was never able to produce a patronus after Fred's death. What a terrible, angsty idea! Snape could still produce a patronus after Lily's death, thank goodness, because it was a way of remembering her! And, as shown in the last chapter, George's patronus is now what Fred's patronus was (minus an ear), so it's as if they're still looking out for each other._

_And, as is probably clear, I am of the strong opinion that George and Angelina had a relationship and eventual marriage that is strong, healthy and loving, and that they are not locked in some sort of necrophilic, twincestuous love triangle. George will "never really get over" Fred's death, and that's okay; he'll carry his brother in his heart through the rest of his life._

_Well, I feel like I have closure now, which is a relief, because I can resume work on my original projects that were put on hold for the sake of George Weasley's fictitious mental well-being :) I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you every one for reading and commenting and arguing and debating with me—that's half the fun!_


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